LEAVES  OF  GRASS 
WAIT  WHITMAN 


9 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS 


LEAVES   OF  GRASS 
WALT  WHITMAN 


COMPLETE 

[AUTHORIZED  BY  THE  EXECUTORS] 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 
MCMXTV 


COPYRIGHT 
1855,  1856,  i860,  1867 

1871,  1876,  1881,  1882,  1883,  1884,  1888,  1891 

BY  WALT  WHITMAN 


COPYRIGHT 

1897 

BY   RICHARD  MAURICE  BUCKE 

THOMAS  B.   HARNED  AND   HORACE  L.   TRAUBEL 
LITERARY  EXECUTORS  OF  WALT  WHITMAN 


ENTERED  AT  STATIONERS  HALL. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


COME,   SAID  MY  SOUL, 

SUCH  VERSES  FOR   MY   BODY   LET  US  WRITE,    (FOR   WE   ARE   ONE,) 

THAT   SHOULD   I   AFTER   DEATH   INVISIBLY   RETURN, 

OR,    LONG,   LONG  HENCE,    IN  OTHER  SPHERES, 

THERE   TO  SOME   GROUP   OF   MATES   THE   CHANTS   RESUMING, 

(TALLYING  EARTH'S  SOIL,  TREES,  WINDS,  TUMULTUOUS  WAVES,) 
EVER  WITH  PLEAS'D  SMILE  i  MAY  KEEP  ON, 

EVER  AND  EVER  YET  THE  VERSES  OWNING— AS,  FIRST,  I  HERE  AND  NOW, 
SIGNING  FOR  SOUL  AND  BODY,   SET  TO  THEM  MY  NAME, 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE  FROM  1891-2  EDITION. 

As  there  are  now  several  editions  of  L.  of  G.,  different  texts  and 
dates,  I  wish  to  say  that  I  prefer  and  recommend  this  present  one,  complete, 
for  future  printing,  if  there  should  be  any;  a  copy  and  fac-simile,  indeed,  of 
the  text  of  these  438  pages.  The  subsequent  adjusting  interval  which  is  so 
important  to  form'd  and  launch'd  work,  books  especially,  has  pass'd;  and 
waiting  till  fully  after  that,  I  have  given  (pages  423-438)  my  concluding 
words.  W.  W. 

These  concluding  words  appear  on  pp.  433-446  of  the  present  edition. 


CONTENTS. 


INSCRIPTIONS.  PAGE 

ONE'S-SELF  I  SING 9 

As  I  PONDER'D  IN  SILENCE 9 

IN  CABIN'D  SHIPS  AT  SEA 10 

To  FOREIGN  LANDS n 

To  A  HISTORIAN n 

To  THEE  OLD  CAUSE n 

EIDOLONS 12 

FOR  HIM  I  SING 14 

WHEN  I  READ  THE  BOOK 14 

BEGINNING  MY  STUDIES 14 

BEGINNERS 15 

To  THE  STATES 15 

ON  JOURNEYS  THROUGH  THE  STATES 15 

To  A  CERTAIN  CANTATRICE 16 

ME  IMPERTURBE 16 

SAVANTISM 16 

THE  SHIP  STARTING 16 

I  HEAR  AMERICA  SINGING 17 

WHAT  PLACE  is  BESIEGED? 17 

STILL  THOUGH  THE  ONE  I  SING      .- 17 

SHUT  NOT  YOUR  DOORS        ........  17 

POETS  TO  COME 18 

To  You 18 

THOU  READER 18 

/      STARTING  FROM  PAUMANOK 18 

SONG  OF  MYSELF 29 

CHILDREN  OP  ADAM. 

To  THE  GARDEN  THE  WORLD 79 

FROM  PENT-UP  ACHING  RIVERS        ......  79 

I  SING  THE  BODY  ELECTRIC 81 

A  WOMAN  WAITS  FOR  ME 

SPONTANEOUS  ME 89 

ONE  HOUR  TO  MADNESS  AND  JOY 91 

OUT  OF  THE  ROLLING  OCEAN  THE  CROWD        ....  92 

AGES  AND  AGES  RETURNING  AT  INTERVALS   ....  92 

WE  Two,  How  LONG  WE  WERE  FOOL'D 93 

0  HYMEN  !  O  HYMENEE  ! 93 

1  AM  HE  THAT  ACHES  WITH  LOVE 93 

NATIVE  MOMENTS 94 

ONCE  I  PASS'D  THROUGH  A  POPULOUS  CITY      ....  94 

I  HEARD  You  SOLEMN-SWEET  PIPES  OF  THE  ORGAN   .        .  94 

FACING  WEST  FROM  CALIFORNIA'S  SHORES        ....  95 

As  ADAM  EARLY  IN  THE  MORNING               ,  95 


CONTENTS. 


CALAMUS.  PAGE 

IN  PATHS  UNTRODDEN 95 

SCENTED  HERBAGE  OF  MY  BREAST 96 

WHOEVER  You  ARE  HOLDING  ME  Now  IN  HAND  ...  97 

FOR  You  O  DEMOCRACY 99 

THESE  I  SINGING  IN  SPRING        .       .        .        .                .        .  99 

NOT  HEAVING  FROM  MY  RIBB'D  BREAST  ONLY     ...  100 

OF  THE  TERRIBLE  DOUBT  OF  APPEARANCES      .        .        .        .  101 

THE  BASE  OF  ALL  METAPHYSICS 101 

RECORDERS  AGES  HENCE IGJ 

WHEN  I  HEARD  AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  DAY        .        .        .  102 

ARE  You  THE  NEW  PERSON  DRAWN  TOWARD  ME?.        .        .  103 

ROOTS  AND  LEAVES  THEMSELVES  ALONE         .        .        .        .  103 

NOT  HEAT  FLAMES  UP  AND  CONSUMES 104 

TRICKLE  DROPS 104 

CITY  OF  ORGIES 105 

BEHOLD  THIS  SWARTHY  FACE 105 

I  SAW  IN  LOUISIANA  A  LIVE-OAK  GROWING     ....  105 

To  A  STRANGER 106 

THIS  MOMENT  YEARNING  AND  THOUGHTFUL  106 

I  HEAR  IT  WAS  CHARGED  AGAINST  ME 107 

THE  PRAIRIE-GRASS  DIVIDING 107 

WHEN  I  PERUSE  THE  CONQUER'D  FAME        ....  107 

WE  Two  BOYS  TOGETHER  CLINGING 108 

A  PROMISE  TO  CALIFORNIA 108 

HERE  THE  FRAILEST  LEAVES  OF  ME 108 

No  LABOR-SAVING  MACHINE 108 

A  GLIMPSE 109 

A  LEAF  FOR  HAND  IN  HAND 109 

EARTH  MY  LIKENESS 109 

I  DREAM'D  IN  A  DREAM 109 

WHAT  THINK  You  I  TAKE  MY  PEN  IN  HAND?     .        .       .no 

To  THE  EAST  AND  TO  THE  WEST no 

SOMETIMES  WITH  ONE  I  LOVE no 

To  A  WESTERN  BOY no 

FAST-ANCHOR'D  ETERNAL  O  LOVE in 

AMONG  THE  MULTITUDE in 

O  You  WHOM  I  OFTEN  AND  SILENTLY  COME  .       .       .  in 

THAT  SHADOW  MY  LIKENESS in 

FULL  OF  LIFE  NOW       . in 

SALUT  AU  MONDE! 112 

SONG  OF  THE  OPEN  ROAD  .  .120 

CROSSING  BROOKLYN  FERRY 129 

SONG  OF  THE  ANSWERER 134 

OUR  OLD  FEUILLAGE 138 

A  SONG  OF  JOYS 142 

SONG  OF  THE  BROAD-AXE 148 

SONG  OF  THE  EXPOSITION 157 

SONG  OF  THE  REDWOOD-TKEE 165 

A  SONG  FOR  OCCUPATIONS 169 

A  SONG-  OF  THE  ROLLING  EARTH 176 

YOUTH,  DAY,  OLD  AGE,  AND  NIGHT 180 

BIRDS  OP  PASSAGE. 

SONG  OF  THE  UNIVERSAL 181 

PIONEERS!  O  PIONEERS  I 183 

To  You ...  186 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE.  PAGE 

FRANCE  THE  i8rH  YEAR  OF  THESE  STATES  ....  188 

MYSELF  AND  MINE 189 

YEAR  OF  METEORS  (1859-60) 190 

WITH  ANTECEDENTS 191 

A  BROADWAY  PAGEANT 193 

SEA-DRIFT. 

OUT  OF  THE  CRADLE  ENDLESSLY  ROCKING        ....  196 

As  I  EBB'D  WITH  THE  OCEAN  OF  LIFE  .        ....  202 

TEARS 204 

To  THE  MAN-OF-WAR-BIRD 204 

ABOARD  AT  A  SHIP'S  HELM 205 

ON  THE  BEACH  AT  NIGHT 205 

THE  WORLD  BELOW  THE  BRINE 206 

ON  THE  BEACH  AT  NIGHT  ALONE 207 

SONG  FOR  ALL  SEAS,  ALL  SHIPS 207 

PATROLING  BARNEGAT 208 

AFTER  THE  SEA-SHIP 209 

BY  THE  ROADSIDE. 

A  BOSTON  BALLAD  —  1854 209 

EUROPE  THE  720  AND  730  YEARS  OF  THESE  STATES       .        .211 

A  HAND-MIRROR 213 

GODS 213 

GERMS 214 

THOUGHTS 214 

WHEN  I  HEARD  THE  LEARN'D  ASTRONOMER        .        .       .  214 

PERFECTIONS 214 

0  ME!  O  LIFE! 215 

To  A  PRESIDENT 215 

1  SIT  AND  LOOK  OUT 215 

To  RICH  GIVERS 210 

THE  DALLIANCE  OF  THE  EAGLES 216 

ROAMING  IN  THOUGHT 216 

A  FARM  PICTURE 216 

A  CHILD'S  AMAZE 217 

THE  RUNNER 217 

BEAUTIFUL  WOMEN 217 

MOTHER  AND  BABE 217 

THOUGHT 217 

VISOR'D 217 

THOUGHT «7 

GLIDING  O'ER  ALL 218 

HAST  NEVER  COME  TO  THEE  AN  HOUR 218 

THOUGHT     

To  OLD  AGE  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        •        •        •        .218 

LOCATIONS  AND  TIMES 

OFFERINGS 218 

To  IDENTIFY  THE  i6TH,  I7TH  OR  i8TH  PRESIDENTIAD  .        .  218 

DRUM-TAPS. 

FIRST  O  SONGS  FOR  A  PRELUDE 219 

EIGHTEEN  SIXTY-ONE 

BEAT!  BEAT!  DRUMS! ...  222 

FROM  PAUMANOK  STARTING  I  FLY  LIKE  A  BIRD  . 

SONG  OK  THE  BANNER  AT  DAYBREAK 221 

RISE  O  DAYS  FROM  YOUR  FATHOMLESS  DEEPS     ...  228 


CONTENTS. 


DRUM-TAPS. 

VIRGINIA  — THE  WEST 230 

CITY  OF  SHIPS 230 

THE  CENTENARIAN'S  STORY 231 

CAVALRY  CROSSING  A  FORD 235 

BIVOUAC  ON  A  MOUNTAIN  SIDE 235 

AN  ARMY  CORPS  ON  THE  MARCH 236 

BY  THE  BIVOUAC'S  FITFUL  FLAME 236 

COME  UP  FROM  THE  FIELDS  FATHER 236 

VIGIL  STRANGE  I  KEPT  ON  THE  FIELD  ONE  NIGHT     .        .  23;* 
A  MARCH  IN  THE  RANKS  HARD-PREST     .     .    .        .        .        .239 

A  SIGHT  IN  CAMP  IN  THE  DAYBREAK  GRAY  AND  DIM        .  240 
As  TOILSOME  I  WANDER'D  VIRGINIA'S  WOODS         .        .        .240 

NOT  THE  PILOT 241 

YEAR  THAT  TREMBLED  AND  REEL'D  BENEATH  ME    .        .        .241 

THE  WOUND-DRESSER 241 

LONG,  TOO  LONG  AMERICA 244 

GIVE  ME  THE  SPLENDID  SILENT  SUN 244 

DIRGE  FOR  Two  VETERANS 246 

OVER  THE  CARNAGE  ROSE  PROPHETIC  A  VOICE    .        .        .  247. 

I  SAW  OLD  GENERAL  AT  BAY 247 

THE  ARTILLERYMAN'S  VISION 248 

ETHIOPIA  SALUTING  THE  COLORS 249 

NOT  YOUTH  PERTAINS  TO  ME 249 

RACE  OF  VETERANS 250 

WORLD  TAKE  GOOD  NOTICE 250 

O  TAN-FACED  PRAIRIE-BOY 250- 

LOOK  DOWN  FAIR  MOON *^ 

RECONCILIATION     .  250 

How  SOLEMN  AS  ONE  BY  ONE 251 

As  I  LAY  WITH  MY  HEAD  IN  YOUR  LAP  CAMERADO      .       .  251 

DELICATE  CLUSTER 252 

To  A  CERTAIN  CIVILIAN 252 

Lo,  VICTRESS  ON  THE  PEAKS 252 

SPIRIT  WHOSE  WORK  is  DONE 253 

ADIEU  TO  A  SOLDIER 253 

TURN  O  LIBERTAD 254 

To  THE  LEAVEN'D  SOIL  THEY  TROD 254 

MEMORIES  OP  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN. 

-N.WHEN  LILACS  LAST  IN  THE  DOORYARD  BLOOM'D    .        .        .  255 

O  CAPTAIN,  MY  CAPTAIN 262 

HUSH'D  BE  THE  CAMPS  TO-DAY 263 

THIS  DUST  WAS  ONCE  THE  MAN 263 

BY  BLUE  ONTARIO'S  SHORE 264 

REVERSALS 276 

AUTUMN  RIVULETS. 

As  CONSEQUENT 277 

THE  RETURN  OF  THE  HEROES 278 

THERE  WAS  A  CHILD  WENT  FORTH 282 

OLD  IRELAND 284 

THE  CITY  DEAD-HOUSE 284 

THIS  COMPOST 285 

To  A  FOIL'D  EUROPEAN  REVOLUTIONAIRE  .  '     .        .        .        .  287 

UNNAMED  LANDS 288 

SONG  OF  PRUDENCE       .  .        .         .....  289 


CONTENTS. 


AUTUMN  RIVULETS.  PAGB 

THE  SINGER  IN  THE  PRISON 292 

WARBLE  FOR  LILAC-TIME 293 

OUTLINES  FOR  A  TOMB 294 

OUT  FROM  BEHIND  THIS  MASK 296 

VOCALISM 297 

To  HIM  THAT  WAS  CRUCIFIED 298 

You  FELONS  ON  TRIAL  IN  COURTS 298 

LAWS  FOR  CREATIONS 299 

To  A  COMMON  PROSTITUTE 299 

I  WAS  LOOKING  A  LONG  WHILE 300 

THOUGHT 300 

MIRACLES 301 

SPARKLES  FROM  THE  WHEEL 301 

To  A  PUPIL 302 

UNFOLDED  OUT  OF  THE  FOLDS 302 

WHAT  AM  I  AFTER  ALL 303 

KOSMOS 303 

OTHERS  MAY  PRAISE  WHAT  THEY  LIKE 304 

WHO  LEARNS  MY  LESSON  COMPLETE 304 

TESTS 305 

THE  TORCH 305 

O  STAR  OF  FRANCE  (1870-71)      .......  306 

THE  OX-TAMER 307 

AN  OLD  MAN'S  THOUGHT  OF  SCHOOL 308 

WANDERING  AT  MORN 308 

ITALIAN  Music  IN  DAKOTA 309 

WITH  ALL  THY  GIFTS 309 

MY  PICTURE-GALLERY 310 

THE  PRAIRIE  STATES 310 

PROUD  Music  OF  THE  STORM 310 

PASSAGE  TO  INDIA 315 

PRAYER  OF  COLUMBUS 323 

THE  SLEEPERS 325 

TRANSPOSITIONS 332 

To  THINK  OF  TIME 333 

WHISPERS  OF  HEAVENLY  DEATH. 

DAREST  THOU  Now  O  SOUL 338 

WHISPERS  OF  HEAVENLY  DEATH 338 

CHANTING  THE  SQUARE  DEIFIC 339 

OF  HIM  I  LOVE  DAY  AND  NIGHT 340 

YET,  YET,  YE  DOWNCAST  HOURS 341 

As  IF  A  PHANTOM  CARESS'D  ME 34 ' 

ASSURANCES 342 

QUICKSAND  YEARS 342 

THAT  Music  ALWAYS  ROUND  ME 343 

WHAT  SHIP  PUZZLED  AT  SEA 343 

A  NOISELESS  PATIENT  SPIDER 343 

O  LIVING  ALWAYS,  ALWAYS  DYING 344 

To  ONE  SHORTLY  TO  DIE 344 

NIGHT  ON  THE  PRAIRIES 344 

THOUGHT 345 

THE  LAST  INVOCATION «  346 

As  I  WATCH'D  THE  PLOUGHMAN  PLOUGHING    ....  346 

PENSIVE  AND  FALTERING »  346 


6  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THOU  MOTHER  WITH  THY  EQUAL  BROOD 346 

A  PAUMANOK  PICTURE 351 

FROM  NOON  TO  STARRY  NIGHT. 

THOU  ORB  ALOFT  FULL-DAZZLING 352 

FACES 353 

THE  MYSTIC  TRUMPETER      ....;...  356 

To  A  LOCOMOTIVE  IN  WINTER 358 

O  MAGNET-SOUTH 3f 

MANNAHATTA 

ALL  is  TRUTH 3DI 

A  RIDDLE  SONG 362 

EXCELSIOR 3^3 

AH  POVERTIES,  WINCINGS,  AND  SULKY  RETREATS        .       .  364 

THOUGHTS 3^4 

MEDIUMS 3^4 

WEAVE  IN,  MY  HARDY  LIFE 365 

SPAIN,  1873-74    365 

BY  BROAD  POTOMAC'S  SHORE 366 

FROM  FAR  DAKOTA'S  CANONS  (JUNE  25,  1876)       .        .        .  366 

OLD  WAR-DREAMS 3^7 

THICK-SPRINKLED  BUNTING 367 

WHAT  BEST  I  SEE  IN  THEE 368 

SPIRIT  THAT  FORM'D  THIS  SCENE 368 

As  I  WALK  THESE  BROAD  MAJESTIC  DAYS      ....  369 

A  CLEAR  MIDNIGHT 369 

SONGS  OF  PARTING. 

As  THE  TIME  DRAWS  NIGH 37° 

YEARS  OF  THE  MODERN 37° 

ASHES  OF  SOLDIERS 37  * 

THOUGHTS 373 

SONG  AT  SUNSET 374 

As  AT  THY  PORTALS  ALSO  DEATH 37° 

MY  LEGACY 376 

PENSIVE  ON  HER  DEAD  GAZING 

CAMPS  OF  GREEN 377 

THE  SOBBING  OF  THE  BELLS 37s 

As  THEY  DRAW  TO  A  CLOSE 379 

TOY,  SHIPMATE,  JOY 379 

THE  UNTOLD  WANT 379 

PORTALS -  379 

THESE  CAROLS 379 

Now  FINALE  TO  THE  SHORE 38° 

So  LONG  ! 38° 

SANDS   AT  SEVENTY  (First  Annex). 

MANNAHATTA        .        .        . 385 

PAUMANOK 385 

FROM  MONTAUK  POINT         .......  385 

To  THOSE  WHO'VE  FAIL'D 385 

A  CAROL  CLOSING  SIXTY-NINE 386 

THE  BRAVEST  SOLDIERS 386 

A  FONT  OF  TYPE 386 

As  I  SIT  WRITING  HERE 386 

MY  CANARY  BIRD 386 

QUERIES  TO  MY  SEVENTIETH  YEAR      .    .        .        .        .        •  387 


CONTENTS. 


SANDS  AT  SEVENTY. 

THE  WALLABOUT  MARTYRS  .......  387 

THE  FIRST  DANDELION 387 

AMERICA 387 

MEMORIES 387 

TO-DAY  AND  THEE -388 

AFTER  THE  DAZZLE  OF  DAY 388 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN,  BORN  FEB.  12,  1809    ....  388 

Out  OF  MAY'S  SHOWS  SELECTED     ......  388 

HALCYON  DAYS 388 

FANCIES  AT  NAVESINK      ........  389 

(The  Pilot  in  the  Mist  — Had  1  the  CJtoice  —  You  Tides  With  Ceaseless 
Swell  — Last  of  Ebb,  and  Daylight  Waning  — And  Yet  Not  You 
Alone  —  Proudly  the  Flood  Comes  In  —  By  That  Long  Scan  of 
Waves—  Then  Last  of  All.} 

ELECTION  DAY,  NOVEMBER,  1884 391 

WITH  HUSKY-HAUGHTY  LIPS,  O  SEA 392 

DEATH  OF  GENERAL  GRANT 392 

RED  JACKET  (FROM  ALOFT)      .......  393 

WASHINGTON'S  MONUMENT,  FEBRUARY,  1885       .        .        .  393 

OF  THAT  BLITHE  THROAT  OF  THINE 394 

BROADWAY    . 394 

To  GET  THE  FINAL  LILT  OF  SONGS        ...        .        .  394 

OLD  SALT  KOSSABONE 395 

THE  DEAD  TENOR 395 

CONTINUITIES 396 

YONNONDIO        ..........  396 

LIFE .  396 

" GOING  SOMEWHERE" 397 

SMALL  THE  THEME  OF  MY  CHANT      .....  397 

TRUE  CONQUERORS •    .        .        .  397 

THE  UNITED  STATES  TO  OLD  WORLD  CRITICS     .        .        .  398 

THE  CALMING  THOUGHT  OF  ALL 398 

THANKS  IN  OLD  AGE 398 

LIFE  AND  DEATH     .........  398 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  RAIN     .                399 

SOON  SHALL  THE  WINTER'S  FOIL  BE  HERE    .        .        .  399 

WHILE  NOT  THE  PAST  FORGETTING 399 

THE  DYING  VETERAN 400 

STRONGER  LESSONS 400 

A  PRAIRIE  SUNSET .  400 

TWENTY  YEARS     .........  401 

ORANGE  BUDS  BY  MAIL  FROM  FLORIDA 401 

TWILIGHT 401 

You  LINGERING  SPARSE  LEAVES  OF  ME 402 

NOT  MEAGRE  LATENT  BOUGHS  ALONE         ....  402 

TUB  DEAD  EMPEROR 402 

As  THE  GREEK'S  SIGNAL  FLAME 402 

THE  DISMANTLED  SHIP     ........  403 

Now  PRECEDENT  SONGS  FAREWELL 403 

AN  EVENING  LULL 403 

OLD  AGE'S  LAMBENT  PEAKS 404 

AFTER  THE  SUPPER  AND  TALK 404 

GOOD-BYE,  MY  FANCY  (Second  Annex). 

PREFACE  NOTE  TO  SECOND  ANNEX 407 


8  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

GOOD-BYE,  MY  FANCY. 

SAIL  OUT  FOR  GOOD,  Em6LON  YACHT      ....  409 

LINGERING  LAST  DROPS 409 

GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY 409- 

ON,  ON  THE  SAME,  YE  JOCUND  TWAIN 410 

MY  7iST  YEAR 410 

APPARITIONS 410 

THE  PALLID  WREATH 411 

AN  ENDED  DAY 411 

OLD  AGE'S  SHIP  AND  CRAFTY  DEATH'S     .        .        .        .  412 

To  THE  PENDING  YEAR 412 

SHAKSPERE-BACON'S  CIPHER 412 

LONG,  LONG  HENCE 412 

BRAVO,  PARIS  EXPOSITION 413 

INTERPOLATION  SOUNDS 413 

To  THE  SUNSET  BREEZE 414 

OLD  CHANTS 414 

A  CHRISTMAS  GREETING 415 

SOUNDS  OF  THE  WINTER 415 

A  TWILIGHT  SONG 416 

WHEN  THE  FULL-GROWN  POET  CAME 416 

OSCEOLA 417 

A  VOICE  FROM  DEATH 417 

A  PERSIAN  LESSON .        .  418 

THE  COMMONPLACE 419 

"THE  ROUNDED  CATALOGUE  DIVINE  COMPLETE"     .        .  419 

MIRAGES 420 

L.  OF  G.'s  PURPORT 420 

THE  UNEXPRESS'D 421 

GRAND  is  THE  SEEN     .        .        ...        .        .        .  421 

UNSEEN  BUDS 421 

GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY .  422 

OLD  AGE  ECHOES  (Posthumous  Additions). 

To  SOAR  IN  FREEDOM  AND  IN  FULLNESS  OF  POWER    .        .  425 

THEN  SHALL  PERCEIVE 425 

THE  FEW  DROPS  KNOWN 425 

ONE  THOUGHT  EVER  AT  THE  FORE 425 

WHILE  BEHIND  ALL  FIRM  AND  ERECT 426 

A  Kiss  TO  THE  BRIDE 426 

NAY,  TELL  ME  NOT  TO-DAY  THE  PUBLISH'D  SHAME  .        .  426 

SUPPLEMENT  HOURS 427 

OF  MANY  A  SMUTCH'D  DEED  REMINISCENT  .        .        .  427 J 

To  BE  AT  ALL 427 

DEATH'S  VALLEY 428 

ON  THE  SAME  PICTURE 429 

A  THOUGHT  OF  COLUMBUS 429 

A  BACKWARD  GLANCE  O'ER  TRAVEDD  ROADS       .        .  433 


o 


INSCRIPTIONS 


ONE'S-SELF   I   SING. 

NE'S-SELF  I  sing,  a  simple  separate  person, 
Yet  utter  the  word  Democratic,  the  word  En-Masse. 


Of  physiology  from  top  to  toe  I  sing, 

Not  physiognomy  alone  nor  brain  alone  is  worthy  for  the  Muse,, 

i  say  the  Form  complete  is  worthier  far, 
The  Female  equally  with  the  Male  I  sing. 

Of  Life  immense  in  passion,  pulse,  and  power, 
Cheerful,  for  freest  action  form'd  under  the  laws  divine, 
The  Modern  Man  I  sing. 


AS   I   PONDER'D   IN   SILENCE. 

As  I  ponder'd  in  silence, 

Returning  upon  my  poems,  considering,  lingering  long, 

A  Phantom  arose  before  me  with  distrustful  aspect, 

Terrible  in  beauty,  age,  and  power, 

The  genius  of  poets  of  old  lands, 

As  to  me  directing  like  flame  its  eyes, 

With  finger  pointing  to  many  immortal  songs, 

And  menacing  voice,  What  singest  thou  ?  it  said, 

Know'st  thou  not  there  is  but  one  theme  for  ever-enduring  bards  } 

And  that  is  the  theme  of  War,  the  fortune  of  battles, 

The  making  of  perfect  soldiers. 

Be  it  so,  then  I  answer'd, 

/  too  haughty  Shade  also  sing  war,  and  a  longer  and  greater  one 

than  any, 
Waged  in  my  book  with  varying  fortune,  with  flight^  advance  ana 

retreat,  victory  deferred  and  wavering 


IO  LEA  YES  OF  GRASS. 

(  Yet  methinks  certain,  or  as  good  as  certain,  at  the  last,)  the  field 

the  world, 

For  life  and  death,  for  the  Body  and  for  the  eternal  Souly 
Lo,  I  too  am  come,  chanting  the  chant  of  battles, 
I  above  all  promote  brave  soldiers. 

IN   CABIN'D   SHIPS   AT   SEA. 

IN  cabin'd  ships  at  sea, 

The  boundless  blue  on  every  side  expanding, 

With  whistling  winds  and  music  of  the  waves,  the  large  imperious 

waves, 

Or  some  lone  bark  buoy'd  on  the  dense  marine, 
Where  joyous  full  of  faith,  spreading  white  sails, 
She  cleaves  the  ether  mid  the  sparkle  and  the  foam  of  day,  or 

under  many  a  star  at  night, 
By  sailors  young  and  old  haply  will  I,  a  reminiscence  of  the  land. 

be  read, 
In  full  rapport  at  last. 

Here  are  our  thoughts,  voyagers'  thoughts, 

Here  not  the  land,  firm  land,  alone  appears,  may  then  by  them  be 

said, 
The  sky  overarches  here,  we  feel  the  undulating  deck  beneath  our 

feet, 

We  feel  the  long  pulsation,  ebb  and  flow  of  endless  motion, 
The  tones  of  unseen  mystery,  the  vague  and  vast  suggestions  of  tJie 

briny  world,  the  liquid-flowing  syllables, 
The  perfume,  the  faint  creaking  of  the  cordage,  the  melancholy 

rhythm, 

The  boundless  vista  and  the  horizon  far  and  dim  are  all  here, 
And  this  is  ocean's  poem. 

Then  falter  not  O  book,  fulfil  your  destiny, 
You  not  a  reminiscence  of  the  land  alone, 
You  too  as  a  lone  bark  cleaving  the  ether,  purposed  I  know  not 

whither,  yet  ever  full  of  faith, 
Consort  to  every  ship  that  sails,  sail  you  1 
Bear  forth  to  them  folded  my  love,  (dear  mariners,  for  you  I  fold 

it  here  in  every  leaf ;) 
Speed  on  my  book  !  spread  your  white  sails  my  little  bark  athwart 

the  imperious  waves, 
Chant  on,  sail  on,  bear  o'er  the  boundless  blue  from  me  to  every 

sea, 
This  song  for  mariners  and  all  their  ships. 


INSCRIPTION'S.  I  I 

TO   FOREIGN    LANDS. 

I  HEARD  that  you  ask'd  for  something  to  prove  this  puzzle  the  New 

World, 

And  to  define  America,  her  athletic  Democracy, 
Therefore  I  send  you  my  poems  that  you  behold  in  them  what  you 

wanted. 

TO   A   HISTORIAN. 

You  who  celebrate  bygones, 

Who  have  explored  the  outward,  the  surfaces  of  the  races,  the  life 

that  has  exhibited  itself, 
Who  have  treated  of  man  as  the  creature  of  politics,  aggregates, 

rulers  and  priests, 
I,  habitan  of  the  Alleghanies,  treating  of  him  as  he  is  in  himself 

in  his  own  rights, 
Pressing  the  pulse  of  the  life  that  has  seldom  exhibited  itself,  (the 

great  pride  of  man  in  himself,) 
Chanter  of  Personality,  outlining  what  is  yet  to  be, 
I  project  the  history  of  the  future. 


TO   THEE   OLD   CAUSE. 

To  thee  old  cause  ! 

Thou  peerless,  passionate,  good  cause, 

Thou  stern,  remorseless,  sweet  idea, 

Deathless  throughout  the  ages,  races,  lands, 

After  a  strange  sad  war,  great  war  for  thee, 

(I  think  all  war  through  time  was  really  fought,  and  ever  will  be 

really  fought,  for  thee,) 
These  chants  for  thee,  the  eternal  march  of  thee. 

(A  war  O  soldiers  not  for  itself  alone, 

Far,  far  more  stood  silently  waiting  behind,  now  to  advance  in 
this  book.) 

Thou  orb  of  many  orbs  ! 

Thou  seething  principle  !  thou  well-kept,  latent  germ  !  thou  centre ! 
Ground  the  idea  of  thee  the  war  revolving, 
With  all  its  angry  and  vehement  play  of  causes, 
(With  vast  results  to  come  for  thrice  a  thousand  years,) 
'These  recitatives  for  thee,  —  my  book  and  the  war  are  one, 
Merged  in  its  spirit  I  and  mine,  as  the  contest  hinged  on  thee, 
As  a  wheel  on  its  axis  turns,  this  book  unwitting  to  itself, 
Around  the  idea  of  thee. 
2 


12  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

EIDOLONS. 

I  MET  a  seer, 

Passing  the  hues  and  objects  of  the  world, 
The  fields  of  art  and  learning,  pleasure,  sense, 

To  glean  eid61ons. 

Put  in  thy  chants  said  he, 

No  more  the  puzzling  hour  nor  day,  nor  segments,  parts,  put  in, 
Put  first  before  the  rest  as  light  for  all  and  entrance-song  of  all, 

That  of  eid61ons. 

Ever  the  dim  beginning, 
Ever  the  growth,  the  rounding  of  the  circle, 
Ever  the  summit  and  the  merge  at  last,  (to  surely  start  again,) 

Eid61ons  !  eid61ons ! 

Ever  the  mutable, 

Ever  materials,  changing,  crumbling,  re-cohering, 
Ever  the  ateliers,  the  factories  divine, 

Issuing  eid61ons. 

Lo,  I  or  you, 

Or  woman,  man,  or  state,  known  or  unknown, 
We  seeming  solid  wealth,  strength,  beauty  build, 

But  really  build  eid61ons. 

The  ostent  evanescent, 

The  substance  of  an  artist's  mood  or  savan's  studies  long, 
Or  warrior's,  martyr's,  hero's  toils, 

To  fashion  his  eid61on. 

Of  every  human  life, 

(The  units  gather'd,  posted,  not  a  thought,  emotion,  deed,  left  out,) 
The  whole  or  large  or  small  summ'd,  added  up, 

In  its  eid61on. 

The  old,  old  urge, 

Based  on  the  ancient  pinnacles,  lo,  newer,  higher  pinnacles, 
From  science  and  the  modern  still  impell'd, 

The  old,  old  urge,  eid6lons. 

The  present  now  and  here, 
America's  busy,  teeming,  intricate  whirl, 
Of  aggregate  and  segregate  for  only  thence  releasing, 

To-day's  eid61ons. 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


These  with  the  past, 

Of  vanish'd  lands,  of  all  the  reigns  of  kings  across  the  sea, 
Old  conquerors,  old  campaigns,  old  sailors'  voyages, 

Joining  eidolons. 

Densities,  growth,  facades, 
Strata  of  mountains,  soils,  rocks,  giant  trees, 
Far-born,  far-dying,  living  long,  to  leave, 

Eidolons  everlasting. 

Exalte,  rapt,  ecstatic, 
The  visible  but  their  womb  of  birth, 
Of  orbic  tendencies  to  shape  and  shape  and  shape, 

The  mighty  earth-eiddlon. 

All  space,  all  time, 

(The  stars,  the  terrible  perturbations  of  the  suns, 
Swelling,  collapsing,  ending,  serving  their  longer,  shorter  use,) 

FilPd  with  eidolons  only. 

The  noiseless  myriads, 
The  infinite  oceans  where  the  rivers  empty, 
The  separate  countless  free  identities,  like  eyesight, 

The  true  realities,  eiddlons. 

Not  this  the  world, 

Nor  these  the  universes,  they  the  universes, 
Purport  and  end,  ever  the  permanent  life  of  life, 

Eiddlons,  Eidolons. 

Beyond  thy  lectures  learn 'd  professor, 
Beyond  thy  telescope  or  spectroscope  observer  keen,  beyond  all 

mathematics, 
Beyond  the  doctor's  surgery,  anatomy,  beyond  the  chemist  with 

his  chemistry, 
The  entities  of  entities,  eidolons. 

Unfix'd  yet  fix'd, 

Ever  shall  be,  ever  have  been  and  are, 
Sweeping  the  present  to  the  infinite  future, 

Eidolons,  eidolons,  eidolons. 

The  prophet  and  the  bard, 

Shall  yet  maintain  themselves,  in  higher  stages  yet, 
Shall  mediate  to  the  Modern,  to  Democracy,  interpret  yet  to  them, 

God  and  eidolons. 


14  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

And  thee  my  soul, 
Joys,  ceaseless  exercises,  exaltations, 
Thy  yearning  amply  fed  at  last,  prepared  to  meet, 

Thy  mates,  eid61ons. 

Thy  body  permanent, 
The  body  lurking  there  within  thy  body, 
The  only  purport  of  the  form  thou  art,  the  real  I  myself, 

An  image,  an  eid61on. 

Thy  very  songs  not  in  thy  songs, 
No  special  strains  to  sing,  none  for  itself, 
But  from  the  whole  resulting,  rising  at  last  and  floating, 

A  round  full-orb'd  eid61on. 


FOR   HIM    I   SING. 
FOR  him  I  sing, 
I  raise  the  present  on  the  past, 

(As  some  perennial  tree  out  of  its  roots,  the  present  on  the  past, 
With  time  and  space  I  him  dilate  and  fuse  the  immortal  laws, 
To  make  himself  by  them  the  law  unto  himself. 


WHEN    I    READ  THE   BOOK. 

WHEN  I  read  the  book,  the  biography  famous, 

And  is  this  then  (said  I)  what  the  author  calls  a  man's  life? 

And  so  will  some  one  when  I  am  dead  and  gone  write  my  life  ? 

(As  if  any  man  really  knew  aught  of  my  life, 

Why  even  I  myself  I  often  think  know  little  or  nothing  cf  my  re&l 

life, 

Only  a  few  hints,  a  few  diffused  faint  clews  and  indirections 
I  seek  for  my  own  use  to  trace  out  here.) 


BEGINNING   MY   STUDIES. 

BEGINNING  my  studies  the  first  step  pleas'd  me  so  much, 

The  mere  fact  consciousness,  these  forms,  the  power  of  motion, 

The  least  insect  or  animal,  the  senses,  eyesight,  love, 

The  first  step  I  say  awed  me  and  pleas'd  me  so  much, 

I  have  hardly  gone  and  hardly  wish'd  to  go  any  farther, 

But  stop  and  loiter  all  the  time  to  sing  it  in  ecstatic  songs. 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


BEGINNERS. 

How  they  are  provided  for  upon  the  earth,  (appearing  at  inter 
vals,) 

How  dear  and  dreadful  they  are  to  the  earth, 

How  they  inure  to  themselves  as  much  as  to  any  —  what  a.  paradox 
appears  their  age, 

How  people  respond  to  them,  yet  know  them  not, 

How  there  is  something  relentless  in  their  fate  all  times, 

How  all  times  mischoose  the  objects  of  their  adulation  and  re 
ward, 

And  how  the  same  inexorable  price  must  still  be  paid  for  the  same 
great  purchase. 

TO   THE   STATES. 

To  the  States  or  any  one  of  them,  or  any  city  of  the  States,  Resist 

much,  obey  little, 

Once  unquestioning  obedience,  once  fully  enslaved, 
Once  fully  enslaved,  no  nation,  state,  city  of  this  earth,  ever  after 
ward  resumes  its  liberty. 


ON  JOURNEYS   THROUGH   THE   STATES. 

ON  journeys  through  the  States  we  start, 

(Ay  through  the  world,  urged  by  these  songs, 

Sailing  henceforth  to  every  land,  to  every  sea,) 

We  willing  learners  of  all,  teachers  of  all,  and  lovers  of  all. 

We  have  watch'd  the  seasons  dispensing  themselves  and  passing 

on, 
And  have  said,  Why  should  not  a  man  or  woman  do  as  much  as 

the  seasons,  and  effuse  as  much  ? 

We  dwell  a  while  in  every  city  and  town, 

We  pass  through  Kanada,  the  North-east,  the  vast  valley  of  the 
Mississippi,  and  the  Southern  States, 

We  confer  on  equal  terms  with  each  of  the  States, 

We  make  trial  of  ourselves  and  invite  men  and  women  to  hear, 

We  say  to  ourselves,  Remember,  fear  not,  be  candid,  promulge  the 
body  and  the  soul, 

Dwell  a  while  and  pass  on,  be  copious,  temperate,  chaste,  mag 
netic, 

And  what  you  effuse  may  then  return  as  the  seasons  return, 

And  may  be  just  as  much  as  the  seasons. 


1 6  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


TO  A  CERTAIN   CANTATRICE. 

HERE,  take  this  gift, 

I  was  reserving  it  for  some  hero,  speaker,  or  general, 

One  who  should  serve  the  good  old  cause,  the  great  idea,  the  prog 
ress  and  freedom  of  the  race, 

Some  brave  confronter  of  despots,  some  daring  rebel ; 

But  I  see  that  what  I  was  reserving  belongs  to  you  just  as  much  as 
to  any. 

ME   IMPERTURBE. 

ME  imperturbe,  standing  at  ease  in  Nature, 

Master  of  all  or  mistress  of  all,  aplomb  in  the  midst  of  irrational 
things, 

Imbued  as  they,  passive,  receptive,  silent  as  they, 

Finding  my  occupation,  poverty,  notoriety,  foibles,  crimes,  less  im 
portant  than  I  thought, 

Me  toward  the  Mexican  sea,  or  in  the  Mannahatta  or  the  Tennes 
see,  or  far  north  or  inland, 

A  river  man,  or  a  man  of  the  woods  or  of  any  farm-life  of  these 
States  or  of  the  coast,  or  the  lakes  or  Kanada, 

Me  wherever  my  life  is  lived,  O  to  be  self-balanced  for  contingen 
cies, 

To  confront  night,  storms,  hunger,  ridicule,  accidents,  rebuffs,  as 
the  trees  and  animals  do. 


SAVANTISM. 

THITHER  as  I  look  I  see  each  result  and  glory  retracing  itself  and 
nestling  close,  always  obligated, 

Thither  hours,  months,  years  —  thither  trades,  compacts,  establish 
ments,  even  the  most  minute, 

Thither  every-day  life,  speech,  utensils,  politics,  persons,  estates ; 

Thither  we  also,  I  with  my  leaves  and  songs,  trustful,  admirant, 

As  a  father  to  his  father  going  takes  his  children  along  with  him. 


THE   SHIP   STARTING. 

Lo,  the  unbounded  sea,  Vu^ 

On  its  breast  a  ship  starting,  spreading  all .  sails,  carrying  even  her 

moonsails, 
The  pennant  is  flying  aloft  as  she  speeds  she  speeds  so  stately  — 

below  emulous  waves  press  forward, 
They  surround  the  ship  with  shining  curving  motions  and  foam. 


IN  SCRIP  Tfotfs.  1 7 


I    HEAR   AMERICA   SINGING. 

I  HEAR  America  singing,  the  varied  carols  I  hear, 

Those  of  mechanics,  each  one  singing  his  as  it  should  be  blithe 
and  strong, 

The  carpenter  singing  his  as  he  measures  his  plank  or  beam, 

The  mason  singing  his  as  he  makes  ready  for  work,  or  leaves  off 
work, 

The  boatman  singing  what  belongs  to  him  in  his  boat,  the  deck 
hand  singing  on  the  steamboat  deck, 

The  shoemaker  singing  as  he  sits  on  his  bench,  the  hatter  singing 
as  he  stands, 

The  wood-cutter's  song,  the  ploughboy's  on  his  way  in  the  morn 
ing,  or  at  noon  intermission  or  at  sundown, 

The  delicious  singing  of  the  mother,  rr  of  the  young  wife  at  work, 
or  of  the  girl  sewing  or  washing, 

Each  singing  what  belongs  to  him  or  her  and  to  none  else, 

The  day  what  belongs  to  the  day  —  at  night  the  party  of  young 
fellows,  robust,  friendly, 

Singing  with  open  mouths  their  strong  melodious  songs. 


WHAT   PLACE    IS   BESIEGED? 

WHAT  place  is  besieged,  and  vainly  tries  to  raise  the  siege  ? 
Lo,  I  send  to  that  place  a  commander,  swift,  brave,  immortal, 
And  with  him  horse  and  foot,  and  parks  of  artillery, 
And  artillery-men,  the  deadliest  that  ever  fired  gun. 


STILL  THOUGH   THE   ONE   I    SING. 

STILL  though  the  one  I  sing, 

(One,  yet  of  contradictions  made,)  I  dedicate  to  Nationality, 
I  leave  in  him  revolt,  (C  latent  right  of  insurrection  !  O  quench 
less,  indispensable  fire  ! ) 


SHUT   NOT   YOUR   DOORS. 

SHUT  not  your  doors  to  me  proud  libraries, 

For  that  which  was  lacking  on  all  your  well-fill'd  shelves,  yet 

needed  most,  I  bring, 

Forth  from  the  war  emerging,  a  book  I  have  made, 
The  words  of  my  book  nothing,  the  drift  of  it  every  thing, 
A  book  separate,  not  link'd  with  the  rest  nor  felt  by  the  intellect, 
But  you  ye  untold  latencies  will  thrill  to  every  page. 


1 8  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


POETS   TO    COME. 

POETS  to  come  !  orators,  singers,  musicians  to  come  ! 
Not  to-day  is  to  justify  me  and  answer  what  I  am  for, 
But  you,  a  new  brood,  native,  athletic,  continental,  greater  than 

before  known, 
Arouse  !  for  you  must  justify  me. 

I  myself  but  write  one  or  two  indicative  words  for  the  future, 
I  but  advance  a  moment  only  to  wheel  and  hurry  back  in  the 
darkness. 

I  am  a  man  who,  sauntering  along  without  fully  stopping,  turns  a 

casual  look  upon  you  and  then  averts  his  face, 
Leaving  it  to  you  to  prove  and  define  it, 
Expecting  the  main  things  from  you. 


TO   YOU. 

\  STRANGER,  if  you  passing  meet  me  and  desire  to  speak  to  me,  why 

should  you  not  speak  to  me  ? 
1  And  why  should  I  not  speak  to  you  ? 


THOU   READER. 

THOU  reader  throbbest  life  and  pride  and  love  the  same  as  I, 
Therefore  for  thee  the  following  chants. 


STARTING  FROM  PAUMANOK. 


STARTING  from  fish-shape  Paumanok  where  I  was  born, 
Well-begotten,  and  rais'd  by  a  perfect  mother, 
After  roaming  many  lands,  lover  of  populous  pavements, 
Dweller  in  Mannahatta  my  city,  or  on  southern  savannas, 
Or  a  soldier  camp'd  or  carrying  my  knapsack  and  gun,  or  a  miner 

in  California, 
Or  rude  in  my  home  in  Dakota's  woods,  my  diet  meat,  my  drink 

from  the  spring, 

Or  withdrawn  to  muse  and  meditate  in  some  deep  recess, 
Far  from  the  clank  of  crowds  intervals  passing  rapt  and  happy, 


STARTING  FROM  PAUMANOK.  19 

Aware  of  the  fresh  free  giver  the  flowing  Missouri,  aware  of  mighty 

Niagara, 
Aware  of  the  buffalo  herds  grazing  the  plains,  the  hirsute  and 

strong-breasted  bull, 
Oi  earth,  rocks,  Fifth-month  flowers  experienced,  stars,  rain,  snow, 

my  amaze, 
Having   studied   the   mocking-bird's  tones  and  the  flight  of  the 

mountain-hawk, 
And  heard  at  dawn  the  unrivalPd  one,  the  hermit  thrush  from  the 

swamp-cedars, 
Solitary,  singing  in  the  West,  I  strike  up  for  a  New  World. 


Victory,  union,  faith,  identity,  time, 

The  indissoluble  compacts,  riches,  mystery, 

Eternal  progress,  the  kosmos,  and  the  modern  reports. 

This  then  is  life, 

Here  is  what  has  come  to  the  surface  after  so  many  throes  and 

convulsions. 

How  curious  !  how  real ! 

Underfoot  the  divine  soil,  overhead  the  sun. 

See  revolving  the  globe, 

The  ancestor-continents  away  group 'd  together, 
The   present   and   future   continents  north   and   south,  with  the 
isthmus  between. 

See,  vast  trackless  spaces, 
As  in  a  dream  they  change,  they  swiftly  fill, 
Countless  masses  debouch  upon  them, 

They  are  now  cover'd  with  the  foremost  people,  arts,  institutions, 
known. 

See,  projected  through  time, 
For  me  an  audience  interminable. 

With  firm  and  regular  step  they  wend,  they  never  stop, 

Successions  of  men,  Americanos,  a  hundred  millions, 

One  generation  playing  its  part  and  passing  on, 

Another  generation  playing  its  part  and  passing  on  in  its  turn, 

With  faces  turn'd  sideways  or  backward  towards  me  to  listen, 

With  eyes  retrospective  towards  me. 


2O  LEA  YES  OF  GRASS. 


Americanos  !  conquerors  !  marches  humanitarian  ! 
Foremost !  century  marches  !  Libertad  !  masses  ! 
For  you  a  programme  of  chants. 

Chants  of  the  prairies, 

Chants  of  the  long-running  Mississippi,  and  down  to  the  Mexican 
sea, 

Chants  of  Ohio,  Indiana,  Illinois,  Iowa,  Wisconsin  and  Minnesota, 

Chants  going  forth  from  the  centre  from  Kansas,  and  thence  equi 
distant, 

Shooting  in  pulses  of  fire  ceaseless  to  vivify  all. 


Take  my  leaves  America,  take  them  South  and  take  them  North, 
Make  welcome  for  them  everywhere,  for  they  are  your  own  off 
spring, 

Surround  them  East  and  West,  for  they  would  surround  you, 
And  you  precedents,  connect  lovingly  with  them,  for  they  connect 
lovingly  with  you. 

I  conn'd  old  times, 

I  sat  studying  at  the  feet  of  the  great  masters, 

Now  if  eligible  O  that  the  great  masters  might  return  and  study  me. 

In  the  name  of  these  States  shall  I  scorn  the  antique  ? 
Why  these  are  the  children  of  the  antique  to  justify  it. 

5 

Dead  poets,  philosophs,  priests, 
Martyrs,  artists,  inventors,  governments  long  since, 
Language-shapers  on  other  shores, 

Nations  once  powerful,  now  reduced,  withdrawn,  or  desolate, 
I  dare  not  proceed  till  I  respectfully  credit  what  you  have  left 

wafted  hither, 

I  have  perused  it,  own  it  is  admirable,  (moving  awhile  among  it,) 
Think  nothing  can  ever  be  greater,  nothing  can  ever  deserve  more 

than  it  deserves, 

Regarding  it  all  intently  a  long  while,  then  dismissing  it, 
I  stand  in  my  place  with  my  own  day  here. 

Here  lands  female  and  male, 

Here  the  heir-ship  and  heiress-ship  of  the  world,  here  the  flame  of 
materials, 


STARTING  FROM  PAUMANOK.  21 


Here  spirituality  the  translatress,  the  openly-avow'd, 
The  ever-tending,  the  finale  of  visible  forms, 
The  satisfier,  after  due  long-waiting  now  advancing, 
Yes  here  comes  my  mistress  the  soul. 

6 

The  soul, 

Forever  and  forever  —  longer  than  soil  is  brown  and  solid  —  longer 
than  water  ebbs  and  flows. 

I  will  make  the  poems  of  materials,  for  I  think  they  are  to  be  the 

most  spiritual  poems, 

And  I  will  make  the  poems  of  my  body  and  of  mortality, 
For  I  think  I  shall  then  supply  myself  with  the  poems  of  my  soul 

and  of  immortality. 

I  will  make  a  song  for  these  States  that  no  one  State  may  under  ; 
any  circumstances  be  subjected  to  another  State, 

And  I  will  make  a  song  that  there  shall  be  comity  by  day  and  by 
night  between  all  the  States,  and  between  any  two  of  them, 

And  I  will  make  a  song  for  the  ears  of  the  President,  full  of  weap 
ons  with  menacing  points, 

And  behind  the  weapons  countless  dissatisfied  faces ; 

And  a  song  make  I  of  the  One  form'd  out  of  all, 

The  fang'd  and  glittering  One  whose  head  is  over  all, 

Resolute  warlike  One  including  and  over  all, 

(However  high  the  head  of  any  else  that  head  is  over  all.) 

I  will  acknowledge  contemporary  lands, 

I  will  trail  the  whole  geography  of  the  globe  and  salute  courte 
ously  every  city  large  and  small, 

And  employments  !  I  will  put  in  my  poems  that  with  you  is  hero 
ism  upon  land  and  sea, 

And  I  will  report  all  heroism  from  an  American  point  of  view. 

I  will  sing  the  song  of  companionship, 
I  will  show  what  alone  must  finally  compact  these, 
I  believe  these  are  to  found  their  own  ideal  of  manly  love,  indi 
cating  it  in  me, 
I  will  therefore  let  flame  from  me   the   burning  fires   that  were 

threatening  to  consume  me, 

I  will  lift  what  has  too  long  kept  down  those  smouldering  fires, 
I  will  give  them  complete  abandonment, 
I  will  write  the  evangel-poem  of  comrades  and  of  love, 
For  who  but  I  should  understand  love  with  all  its  sorrow  and  joy  ? 
And  who  but  I  should  be  the  poet  of  comrades  ? 


22  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


I  am  the  credulous  man  of  qualities,  ages,  races, 
I  advance  from  the  people  in  their  own  spirit, 
Here  is  what  sings  unrestricted  faith. 

Omnes  !  omnes  !  let  others  ignore  what  they  may, 

I  make  the  poem  of  evil  also,  I  commemorate  that  part  also, 

I  am  myself  just  as  much  evil  as  good,  and  my  nation  is — and  1 

say  there  is  in  fact  no  evil, 
(Or  if  there  is  I  say  it  is  just  as  important  to  you,  to  the  land  or 

to  me,  as  any  thing  else.) 

I  too,  following  many  and  follow'd  by  many,  inaugurate  a  religion, 
I  descend  into  the  arena, 

(It  may  be  I  am  destin'd  to  utter  the  loudest  cries  there,  the  win 
ner's  pealing  shouts, 

Who  knows  ?  they  may  rise  from  me  yet,  and  soar  above  every  thing.) 

Each  is  not  for  its  own  sake, 

I  say  the  whole  earth  and  all  the  stars  in  the  sky  are  for  religion's 
sake. 

I  say  no  man  has  ever  yet  been  half  devout  enough, 
None  has  ever  yet  adored  or  worship'd  half  enough, 
None  has  begun  to  think  how  divine  he  himself  is,  and  how  cer 
tain  the  future  is. 

1  say  that  the  real  and  permanent  grandeur  of  these  States  must 

be  their  religion, 

Otherwise  there  is  no  real  and  permanent  grandeur ; 
(Nor  character  nor  life  worthy  the  name  without  religion, 
Nor  land  nor  man  or  woman  without  religion.) 

8 

What  are  you  doing  young  man  ? 

Are  you  so  earnest,  so  given  up  to  literature,  science,  art,  amours? 

These  ostensible  realities,  politics,  points? 

Your  ambition  or  business  whatever  it  may  be  ? 

It  is  well  —  against  such  I  say  not  a  word,  I  am  their  poet  also, 
But  behold  !  such  swiftly  subside,  burnt  up  for  religion's  sake, 
For  not  all  matter  is  fuel  to  heat,  impalpable  flame,  the  essential 

life  of  the  earth, 
Any  more  than  such  are  to  religion. 


STARTING  FROM  PAUMANOR. 


What  do  you  seek  so  pensive  and  silent  ? 
What  do  you  need  camerado  ? 
Dear  son  do  you  think  it  is  love  ? 

Listen  dear  son  —  listen  America,  daughter  or  son, 

It  is  a  painful  thing  to  love  a  man  or  woman  to  excess,  and  yet  it 
satisfies,  it  is  great, 

But  there  is  something  else  very  great,  it  makes  the  whole  coin 
cide, 

It,  magnificent,  beyond  materials,  with  continuous  hands  sweeps 
and  provides  for  all. 

10 

Know  you,  solely  to  drop  in  the  earth  the  germs  of  a  greater 

religion, 
The  following  chants  each  for  its  kind  I  sing. 

My  comrade  ! 

For  you  to  share  with  me  two  greatnesses,  and  a  third  one  rising 
inclusive  and  more  resplendent, 

The  greatness  of  Love  and  Democracy,  and  the  greatness  of  Reli 
gion. 

Melange  mine  own,  the  unseen  and  the  seen, 

Mysterious  ocean  where  the  streams  empty, 

Prophetic  spirit  of  materials  shifting  and  flickering  around  me, 

Living  beings,  identities  now  doubtless  near  us  in  the  air  that  we 

know  not  of, 

Contact  daily  and  hourly  that  will  not  release  me, 
These  selecting,  these  in  hints  demanded  of  me. 

Not  he  with  a  daily  kiss  onward  from  childhood  kissing  me, 
Has  winded  and  twisted  around  me  that  which  holds  me  to  him, 
Any  more  than  I  am  held  to  the  heavens  and  all  the  spiritual 

world, 
After  what  they  have  done  to  me,  suggesting  themes. 

0  such  themes  —  equalities  !  O  divine  average  ! 

Warblings  under  the  sun,  usher'd  as  now,  or  at  noon,  or  set 
ting, 
Strains  musical  flowing  through  ages,  now  reaching  hither, 

1  take  to  your  reckless  and  composite  chords,  add  to  them,  and 

cheerfully  pass  them  forward. 


24  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


ii 

As  I  have  walk'd  in  Alabama  my  morning  walk, 
I  have  seen  where  the  she-bird  the  mocking-bird  sat  on  her  nest 
in  the  briers  hatching  her  brood. 

I  have  seen  the  he-bird  also, 

I  have  paus'd  to  hear  him  near  at  hand  inflating  his  throat  and 
joyfully  singing. 

And  while  I  paus'd  it  came  to  me  that  what  he  really  sang  for  was 

not  there  only, 

Nor  for  his  mate  nor  himself  only,  nor  all  sent  back  by  the  echoes, 
But  subtle,  clandestine,  away  beyond, 
A  charge  transmitted  and  gift  occult  for  those  being  born. 

12 

Democracy !  near  at  hand  to  you  a  throat  is  now  inflating  itself 
and  joyfully  singing. 

Ma  femme  !  for  the  brood  beyond  us  and  of  us, 
For  those  who  belong  here  and  those  to  come, 
I  exultant  to  be  ready  for  them  will  now  shake  out  carols  stronger 
and  haughtier  than  have  ever  yet  been  heard  upon  earth. 

I  will  make  the  songs  of  passion  to  give  them  their  way, 
And  your  songs  outlaw'd  offenders,  for  I  scan  you  with  kindred 
eyes,  and  carry  you  with  me  the  same  as  any. 

I  will  make  the  true  poem  of  riches, 

To  earn  for  the  body  and  the  mind  whatever  adheres  and  goes 

forward  and  is  not  dropt  by  death ; 
I  will  effuse  egotism  and  show  it  underlying  all,  and  I  will  be  the 

bard  of  personality, 
And  I  will  show  of  male  and  female  that  either  is  but  the  equal 

of  the  other, 
And  sexual  organs  and  acts  !  do  you  concentrate  in  me,  for  I  am 

determin'd  to  tell  you  with  courageous  clear  voice  to  prove 

you  illustrious, 

(And  I  will  show  that  there  is  no  imperfection  in  the  present,  and 
can  be  none  in  the  future, 
And  I  will  show  that  whatever  happens  to  anybody  it  may  be 

turn'd  to  beautiful  results, 

And  I  will  show  that  nothing  can  happen  more  beautiful  than 
death, 


STARTING  FROM  PAUMANOK.  25 

And  I  will  thread  a  thread  through  my  poems  that  time  and  events 

are  compact, 
And  that  all  the  things  of  the  universe  are  perfect  miracles,  each 

as  profound  as  any. 

I  will  not  make  poems  with  reference  to  parts, 

But  I  will  make  poems,  songs,  thoughts,  with  reference  to  ensemble, 

And  I  will  not  sing  with  reference  to  a  day,  but  with  reference  to 

all  days, 
And  I  will  not  make  a  poem  nor  the  least  part  of  a  poem  but  has 

reference  to  the  soul, 
Because  having  look'd  at  the  objects  of  the  universe,  I  find  there 

is  no  one  nor  any  particle  of  one  but  has  reference  to  the 

soul. 

13 

Was  somebody  asking  to  see  the  soul  ? 

See,  your  own  shape  and  countenance,  persons,  substances,  beasts, 
the  trees,  the  running  rivers,  the  rocks  and  sands. 

I 

All  hold  spiritual  joys  and  afterwards  loosen  them  ; 
How  can  the  real  body  ever  die  and  be  buried  ? 

Of  your  real  body  and  any  man's  or  woman's  real  body, 

Item  for  item  it  will  elude  the  hands  of  the  corpse-cleaners  and 

pass  to  fitting  spheres, 
Carrying  what  has  accrued  to  it  from  the  moment  of  birth  to  the 

moment  of  death. 

Not  the  types  set  up  by  the  printer  return  their  impression,  the 

meaning,  the  main  concern, 
Any  more  than  a  man's  substance  and  life  or  a  woman's  substance 

and  life  return  in  the  body  and  the  soul, 
Indifferently  before  death  and  after  death. 

Behold,  the  body  includes  and  is  the  meaning,  the  main  concern 

and  includes  and  is  the  soul  ; 
Whoever  you  are,  how  superb  and  how  divine  is  your  body,  or  any 

part  of  it  ! 


Whoever  you  are,  to  you  endless  announcements  ! 

Daughter  of  the  lands  did  you  wait  for  your  poet? 

Did  you  wait  for  one  with  a  flowing  mouth  and  indicative  hand? 


26  LEASES  OF  GRASS. 


Toward  the  male  of  the  States,  and  toward  the  female  of  the  States, 
Exulting  words,  words  to  Democracy's  lands. 

Interlink'd,  food-yielding  lands  ! 

Land  of  coal  and  iron  !  land  of  gold  !  land  of  cotton,  sugar,  rice  ! 

Land  of  wheat,  beef,  pork  !  land  of  wool  and  hemp  !  land  of  the 

apple  and  the  grape  ! 
Land  of  the  pastoral  plains,  the  grass-fields  of  the  world  !  land  of 

those  sweet-air'd  interminable  plateaus  ! 
Land  of  the  herd,  the  garden,  the  healthy  house  of  adobie  ! 
Lands  where  the  north-west  Columbia  winds,  and  where  the  south 
west  Colorado  winds  ! 

Land  of  the  eastern  Chesapeake  !  land  of  the  Delaware  ! 
Land  of  Ontario,  Erie,  Huron,  Michigan  ! 
Land  of  the  Old  Thirteen  !  Massachusetts  land  !  land  of  Vermont 

and  Connecticut ! 

land  of  the  ocean  shores  !  land  of  sierras  and  peaks ! 
Land  of  boatmen  and  sailors  !  fishermen's  land  ! 
Inextricable  lands  !  the  clutch'd  together  !  the  passionate  ones  ! 
The  side  by  side  !  the  elder  and  younger  brothers  !   the  bony- 

limb'd  ! 
The  great  women's  land  !   the  feminine  !    the  experienced  sisters 

and  the  inexperienced  sisters  ! 
Far  breath'd  land  !  Arctic  braced  !  Mexican  breez'd  !  the  diverse  ! 

the  compact ! 
The  Pennsylvanian  !  the  Virginian  !  the  double  Carolinian  ! 

0  all  and  each  well-loved  by  me  !  my  intrepid  nations  !  O  I  at 

any  rate  include  you  all  with  perfect  love  ! 

1  cannot  be  discharged  from  you  !  not  from  one  any  sooner  than 

another  ! 
O  death  !  O  for  all  that,  I  am  yet  of  you  unseen  this  hour  with 

irrepressible  love, 

Walking  New  England,  a  friend,  a  traveler, 
Splashing  my  bare  feet  in  'the  edge  of  the  summer  ripples  on  Pau- 

manok's  sands, 
Crossing  the  prairies,  dwelling  again  in  Chicago,  dwelling  in  every 

town, 

Observing  shows,  births,  improvements,  structures,  arts, 
Listening  to  orators  and  oratresses  in  public  halls, 
Of  and  through  the  States  as  during  life,  each  man  and  woman 

my  neighbor, 
The  Louisianian,  the  Georgian,  as  near  to  me,  and  I  as  near  to 

him  and  her, 
The  Mississippian  and  Arkansian  yet  with  me,  and  I  yet  with  any 

of  them, 

\ 


STARTING  FROM  PAUMANOK.  27 


Yet  upon  the  plains  west  of  the  spinal  river,  yet  in  my  house  of 

adobie, 

Yet  returning  eastward,  yet  in  the  Seaside  State  or  in  Maryland, 
Yet  Kanadian  cheerily  braving  the  winter,  the  snow  and  ice  wel 

come  to  me, 
Yet  a  true  son  either  of  Maine  or  of  the  Granite  State,  or  the 

Narragansett  Bay  State,  or  the  Empire  State, 
Yet  sailing  to  other  shores  to  annex  the  same,  yet  welcoming  every 

new  brother, 
Hereby  applying  these  leaves  to  the  new  ones  from  the  hour  they 

unite  with  the  old  ones, 
Coming  among  the  new  ones  myself  to  be  their  companion  and 

equal,  coming  personally  to  you  now, 
Enjoining  you  to  acts,  characters,  spectacles,  with  me. 


With  me  with  firm  holding,  yet  haste,  haste  on. 

For  your  life  adhere  to  me, 

(I  may  have  to  be  persuaded  many  times  before  I  consent  to  give 

myself  really  to  you,  but  what  of  that? 
Must  not  Nature  be  persuaded  many  times  ?) 

No  dainty  dolce  affettuoso  I, 

Bearded,  sun-burnt,  gray-neck'd,  forbidding,  I  have  arrived, 
To  be  wrestled  with  as  I  pass  for  the  solid  prizes  of  the  universe, 
For  such  I  afford  whoever  can  persevere  to  win  them. 

16 

On  my  way  a  moment  I  pause, 

Here  for  you  !  and  here  for  America  ! 

Still  the   present   I   raise    aloft,  still  the   future   of  the  States  I 

harbinge  glad  and  sublime, 
And  for  the   past  I  pronounce  what  the   air  holds  of  the  red 

aborigines. 

The  red  aborigines, 

Leaving  natural  breaths,  sounds  of  rain  and  winds,  calls  as  of  birds 

and  animals  in  the  woods,  syllabled  to  us  for  names, 
Okonee,   Koosa,   Ottawa,  Monongahela,  Sauk,  Natchez,  Chatta- 

hoochee,  Kaqueta,  Oronoco, 

Wabash,  Miami,  Saginaw,  Chippewa,  Oshkosh,  Walla-  Walla, 
Leaving  such  to  the  States  they  melt,  they  depart,  charging  the 

water  and  the  land  with  names. 
3 


28  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

17 

Expanding  and  swift,  henceforth, 

Elements,  breeds,  adjustments,  turbulent,  quick  and  audacious, 

A  world  primal  again,  vistas  of  glory  incessant  and  branching, 

A  new  race  dominating  previous  ones  and  grander  far,  with  new 

contests, 
New  politics,  new  literatures  and  religions,  new  inventions  and  arts. 

These,  my  voice  announcing  —  I  will  sleep  no  more  but  arise, 
You  oceans  that  have  been  calm  within  me  !  how  I  feel  you,  fathom 
less,  stirring,  preparing  unprecedented  waves  and  storms. 

18 

See,  steamers  steaming  through  my  poems, 

See,  in  my  poems  immigrants  continually  coming  and  landing, 

See,  in  arriere,  the  wigwam,  the  trail,  the  hunter's  hut,  the  flat-boat, 

the  maize-leaf,  the  claim,  the  rude  fence,  and  the  backwoods 

village, 
See,  on  the  one  side  the  Western  Sea  and  on  the  other  the  Eastern 

Sea,  how  they  advance  and  retreat  upon  my  poems  as  upon 

their  own  shores, 
See,  pastures  and  forests  in  my  poems  —  see,  animals  wild  and 

tame  —  see,  beyond  the  Kaw,  countless  herds  of  buffalo 

feeding  on  short  curly  grass, 
See,  in  my  poems,  cities,  solid,  vast,  inland,  with  paved  streets, 

with  iron  and  stone  edifices,  ceaseless  vehicles,  and  com 
merce, 
See,  the  many-cylinder'd  steam  printing-press  —  see,  the  electric 

telegraph  stretching  across  the  continent, 
See,  through  Atlantica's  depths  pulses  American  Europe  reaching, 

pulses  of  Europe  duly  return'd, 
See,  the  strong  and  quick  locomotive  as  it  departs,  panting,  blowing 

the  steam-whistle, 
See,  ploughmen  ploughing  farms  —  see,  miners  digging  mines  — 

see,  the  numberless  factories, 
See,  mechanics  busy  at  their  benches  with  tools  —  see  from  among 

them  superior  judges,  philosophs,  Presidents,  emerge,  drest 

in  working  dresses, 
See,  lounging  through  the  shops  and  fields  of  the  States,  me  well- 

belov'd,  close-held  by  day  and  night, 
Hear  the  loud  echoes  of  my  songs  there  —  read  the  hints  come  at 

last. 

19 
O  camerado  close  !  O  you  and  me  at  last  and  us  two  only. 


SONG  OF  MYSELF.  29 

O  a  word  to  clear  one's  path  ahead  endlessly  ! 

O  something  ecstatic  and  undemonstrable  !  O  music  wild  ! 

O  now  I  triumph  —  and  you  shall  also  ; 

O  hand  in  hand  —  O  wholesome  pleasure  —  O  one  more  desirer 

and  lover  ! 
O  to  haste  firm  holding  —  to  haste,  haste  on  with  me. 


SONG  OF  MYSELF. 


I   CELEBRATE  myself,  and  sing  myself, 
And  what  I  assume  you  shall  assume, 
For  every  atom  belonging  to  me  as  good  belongs  to  you. 

I  loafe  and  invite  my  soul, 

I  lean  and  loafe  at  my  ease  observing  a  spear  of  summer  grass. 

My  tongue,   every  atom  of  my  blood,  form'd  from  this  soil,  this 

air, 
Born  here  of  parents  born  here  from  parents  the  same,  and  then 

parents  the  same, 

I,  now  thirty-seven  years  old  in  perfect  health  begin, 
Hoping  to  cease  not  till  death. 

Creeds  and  schools  in  abeyance, 

Retiring  back  a  while  sufficed  at  what  they  are,  but  never  forgotten, 
I  harbor  for  good  or  bad,  I  permit  to  speak  at  every  hazard, 
Nature  without  check  with  original  energy. 


Houses  and  rooms  are  full  of  perfumes,  the  shelves  are  crowded 

with  perfumes, 

I  breathe  the  fragrance  myself  and  know  it  and  like  it, 
The  distillation  would  intoxicate  me  also,  but  I  shall  not  let  it. 

The  atmosphere  is  not  a  perfume,  it  has  no  taste  of  the  distillation, 

it  is  odorless, 

It  is  for  my  mouth  forever,  I  am  in  love  with  it, 
I  will  go  to  the  bank  by  the  wood  and  become  undisguised  and 

naked, 
I  am  mad  for  it  to  be  in  contact  with  me. 


3O  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

The  smoke  of  my  own  breath, 

Echoes,  ripples,  buzz'd  whispers,  love-root,  silk-thread,  crotch  and 

vine, 

My  respiration  and  inspiration,  the  beating  of  my  heart,  the  pass 
ing  of  blood  and  air  through  my  lungs, 
The  sniff  of  green  leaves  and  dry  leaves,  and  of  the  shore  and 

dark-color'd  sea-rocks,  and  of  hay  in  the  barn, 
The  sound  of  the  belch'd  words  of  my  voice  loos'd  to  the  eddies 

of  the  wind, 

A  few  light  kisses,  a  few  embraces,  a  reaching  around  of  arms, 
The  play  of  shine  and  shade  on  the  trees  as  the  supple  boughs 

wag, 
The  delight  alone  or  in  the  rush  of  the  streets,  or  along  the  fields 

and  hill-sides, 
The  feeling  of  health,  the  full-noon  trill,  the  song  of  me  rising  from 

bed  and  meeting  the  sun. 

Have  you  reckon'd  a  thousand  acres  much?  have  you  reckon'! 

the  earth  much  ? 

Have  you  practis'd  so  long  to  learn  to  read  ? 
Have  you  felt  so  proud  to  get  at  the  meaning  of  poems  ? 

Stop  this  day  and  night  with  me  and  you  shall  possess  the  origin 

of  all  poems, 
You  shall  possess  the  good  of  the  earth  and  sun,  (there  are  millions 

of  suns  left,) 
You  shall  no  longer  take  things  at  second  or  third  hand,  nor  look 

through  the  eyes  of  the  dead,  nor  feed  on  the  spectres  in 

books, 

You  shall  not  look  through  my  eyes  either,  nor  take  things  from  me, 
You  shall  listen  to  all  sides  and  filter  them  from  your  self. 


I  have  heard  what  the  talkers  were  talking,  the  talk  of  the  begin 
ning  and  the  end, 
But  I  do  not  talk  of  the  beginning  or  the  end. 

There  was  never  any  more  inception  than  there  is  now, 
Nor  any  more  youth  or  age  than  there  is  now, 
And  will  never  be  any  more  perfection  than  there  is  now, 
Nor  any  more  heaven  or  hell  than  there  is  now. 

Urge  and  urge  and  urge, 

Always  the  procreant  urge  of  the  world. 


SONG  OF  MYSELF.  31 

Out  of  the  dimness  opposite  equals  advance,  always  substance  and 

increase,  always  sex, 
Always  a  knit  of  identity,  always  distinction,  always  a  breed  of  life. 

To  elaborate  is  no  avail,  learn'd  and  unlearn'd  feel  that  it  is  so. 

Sure  as  the  most  certain  sure,  plumb  in  the  uprights,  well  entretied. 

braced  in  the  beams, 

Stout  as  a  horse,  affectionate,  haughty,  electrical, 
I  and  this  mystery  here  we  stand. 

Clear  and  sweet  is  my  soul,  and  clear  and  sweet  is  all  that  is  not 
my  soul. 

Lack  one  lacks  both,  and  the  unseen  is  proved  by  the  seen, 
Till  that  becomes  unseen  and  receives  proof  in  its  turn. 

Showing  the  best  and  dividing  it  from  the  worst  age  vexes  age, 
Knowing  the  perfect  fitness  and  equanimity  of  things,  while  they 
discuss  I  am  silent,  and  go  bathe  and  admire  myself. 

Welcome  is  every  organ  and  attribute  of  me,  and  of  any  man 

hearty  and  clean, 
Not  an  inch  nor  a  particle  of  an  inch  is  vile,  and  none  shall  be 

less  familiar  than  the  rest. 

I  am  satisfied  —  I  see,  dance,  laugh,  sing ; 

As  the  hugging  and  loving  bed-fellow  sleeps  at  my  side  through 

the  night,  and  withdraws  at  the  peep   of  the   day  with 

stealthy  tread, 
Leaving  me  baskets  cover'd  with  white  towels  swelling  the  house 

with  their  plenty, 
Shall  I  postpone  my  acceptation  and  realization  and  scream  at  my 

eyes, 

That  they  turn  from  gazing  after  and  down  the  road, 
And  forthwith  cipher  and  show  me  to  a  cent, 
Exactly  the  value  of  one  and  exactly  the  value  of  two,  and  which 

is  ahead  ? 


Trippers  and  askers  surround  me, 

People  I  meet,  the  effect  upon  me  of  my  early  life  or  the  ward 

and  city  I  live  in,  or  the  nation, 
The  latest  dates,  discoveries,  inventions,  societies,  authors  old  and 

new, 


32  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

My  dinner,  dress,  associates,  looks,  compliments,  dues, 

The  real  or  fancied  indifference  of  some  man  or  woman  I  love, 

The  sickness  of  one  of  my  folks  or  of  myself,  or  ill-doing  or  loss  or 

lack  of  money,  or  depressions  or  exaltations, 
Battles,  the  horrors  of  fratricidal  war,  the  fever  of  doubtful  news, 

the  fitful  events ; 

These  come  .to  me  days  and  nights  and  go  from  me  again, 
But  they  are  not  the  Me  myself. 

Apart  from  the  pulling  and  hauling  stands  what  I  am, 
Stands  amused,  complacent,  compassionating,  idle,  unitary, 
Looks  down,  is  erect,  or  bends  an  arm  on  an  impalpable  certain 

rest, 

Looking  with  side-curved  head  curious  what  will  come  next, 
Both  in  and  out  of  the  game  and  watching  and  wondering  at  it. 

Backward  I  see  in  my  own  days  where  I  sweated  through  fog  with 

linguists  and  contenders, 
I  have  no  mockings  or  arguments,  I  witness  and  wait. 

5 

I  believe  in  you  my  soul,  the  other  I  am  must  not  abase  itself  to  you, 
And  you  must  not  be  abased  to  the  other. 

Loafe  with  me  on  the  grass,  loose  the  stop  from  your  throat, 

Not  words,  not  music  or  rhyme  I  want,  not  custom  or  lecture,  not 

even  the  best, 
Only  the  lull  I  like,  the  hum  of  your  valved  voice. 

I  mind  how  once  we  lay  such  a  transparent  summer  morning, 
How  you  settled  your  head  athwart  my  hips  and  gently  turn'd  over 

upon  me, 
And  parted  the  shirt  from  my  bosom-bone,  and  plunged  your 

tongue  to  my  bare-stript  heart, 
And  reach'd  till  you  felt  my  beard,  and  reach'd  till  you  held  my 

feet. 

Swiftly  arose  and  spread  around  me  the  peace  and  knowledge  that 

pass  all  the  argument  of  the  earth, 

And  I  know  that  the  hand  of  God  is  the  promise  of  my  own, 
And  I  know  that  the  spirit  of  God  is  the  brother  of  my  own, 
And  that  all  the  men  ever  born  are  also  my  brothers,  and  the 

women  my  sisters  and  lovers, 
And  that  a  kelson  of  the  creation  is  love, 
And  limitless  are  leaves  stiff  or  drooping  in  the  fields, 


SONG  OF  MYSELF.  33 

And  brown  ants  in  the  little  wells  beneath  them, 
And  mossy  scabs  of  the  worm  fence,  heap'd  stones,  elder,  mullein 
and  poke-weed. 

6 

A  child  said  What  is  the  grass  ?  fetching  it  to  me  with  full  hands  ; 
How  could  I  answer  the  child?  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  any 
more  than  he. 

I  guess  it  must  be  the  flag  of  my  disposition,  out  of  hopeful  green 
stuff  woven. 

Or  I  guess  it  is  the  handkerchief  of  the  Lord, 
^  scented  gift  and  remembrancer  designedly  dropt, 
Bearing  the  owner's  name  someway  in  the  corners,  that  we  may 
see  and  remark,  and  say  Whose  ? 

Or  I  guess  the  grass  is  itself  a  child,  the  produced  babe  of  the 
vegetation. 

Or  I  guess  it  is  a  uniform  hieroglyphic, 

And  it  means,  Sprouting  alike  in  broad  zones  and  narrow  zones, 
Growing  among  black  folks  as  among  white, 

Kanuck,  Tuckahoe,  Congressman,  Cuff,  I  give  them  the  same,  I 
receive  them  the  same. 

And  now  it  seems  to  me  the  beautiful  uncut  hair  of  graves. 

Tenderly  will  I  use  you  curling  grass, 

It  may  be  you  transpire  from  the  breasts  of  young  men, 

It  may  be  if  I  had  known  them  I  would  have  loved  them, 

It  may  be  you  are  from  old  people,  or  from  offspring  taK.n  soon 

out  of  their  mothers'  laps, 
And  here  you  are  the  mothers'  laps. 

This  grass  is  very  dark  to  be  from  the  white  heads  of  old  mothers, 

Darker  than  the  colorless  beards  of  old  men, 

Dark  to  come  from  under  the  faint  red  roofs  of  mouths. 

0  I  perceive  after  all  so  many  uttering  tongues, 

And  I  perceive  they  do  not  come  from  the  roofs  of  mouths  for 
nothing. 

1  wish  I  could  translate  the  hints  about  the  dead  young  men  and 

women. 


34  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

And  the  hints  about  old  men  and  mothers,  and  the  offspring  taken 
soon  out  of  their  laps. 

What  do  you  think  has  become  of  the  young  and  old  men  ? 
And  what  do  you  think  has  become  of  the  women  and  chil 
dren? 

They  are  alive  and  well  somewhere, 

The  smallest  sprout  shows  there  is  really  no  death, 

And  if  ever  there  was  it  led  forward  life,  and  does  not  wait  at  the 

end  to  arrest  it, 
And  ceas'd  the  moment  life  appear'd. 

All  goes  onward  and  outward,  nothing  collapses, 

And  to  die  is  different  from  what  any  one  supposed,  and  luckier. 


Has  any  one  supposed  it  lucky  to  be  born  ? 

I  hasten  to  inform  him  or  her  it  is  just  as  lucky  to  die,  and  I 
know  it. 

I  pass  death  with  the  dying  and  birth  with  the  new-wash'd  babe, 

and  am  not  contain'd  between  my  hat  and  boots, 
And  peruse  manifold  objects,  no  two  alike  and  every  one  good, 
The  earth  good  and  the  stars  good,  and  their  adjuncts  all  good. 

I  am  not  an  earth  nor  an  adjunct  of  an  earth, 

I  am  the  mate  and  companion  of  people,  all  just  as  immortal  and 

fathomless  as  myself, 
(They  do  not  know  how  immortal,  but  I  know.) 

Every  kind  for  itself  and  its  own,  for  me  mine  male  and  female, 

For  me  those  that  have  been  boys  and  that  love  women, 

For  me  the  man   that  is  proud  and  feels  how  it  stings  to  be 

slighted, 
For  me  the  sweet-heart  and  the  old  maid,  for  me  mothers  and  the 

mothers  of  mothers, 

For  me  lips  that  have  smiled,  eyes  that  have  shed  tears, 
For  me  children  and  the  begetters  of  children. 

Undrape  !  you  are  not  guilty  to  me,  nor  stale  nor  discarded, 
I  see  through  the  broadcloth  and  gingham  whether  or  no, 
And  am   around,  tenacious,  acquisitive,  tireless,  and   cannot  be 
shaken  away. 


SONG  OF  MYSELF.  35 

8 

The  little  one  sleeps  in  its  cradle, 

I  lift  the  gauze  and  look  a  long  time,  and  silently  brush  away  flies 
with  my  hand. 

The  youngster  and  the  red-faced  girl  turn  aside  up  the  bushy  hill, 
I  peeringly  view  them  from  the  top. 

The  suicide  sprawls  on  the  bloody  door  of  the  bedroom, 
I  witness  the  corpse  with  its  dabbled  hair,  I  note  where  the  pistol 
has  fallen. 

The  blab  of  the  pave,  tires  of  carts,  sluff  of  boot-soles,  talk  of  the 

promenaders, 
The  heavy  omnibus,  the  driver  with  his  interrogating  thumb,  the 

clank  of  the  shod  horses  on  the  granite  floor, 
The  snow-sleighs,  clinking,  shouted  jokes,  pelts  of  snow-balls, 
The  hurrahs  for  popular  favorites,  the  fury  of  rous'd  mobs, 
The  flap  of  the  curtain'd  litter,  a  sick  man  inside  borne  to  the 

hospital, 

The  meeting  of  enemies,  the  sudden  oath,  the  blows  and  fall, 
The  excited  crowd,  the  policeman  with  his  star  quickly  working 

his  passage  to  the  centre  of  the  crowd, 

The  impassive  stones  that  receive  and  return  so  many  echoes, 
What  groans  of  over-fed  or  half-starv'd  who  fall  sunstruck  or  in 

fits, 
What  exclamations  of  women  taken  suddenly  who  hurry  home  and 

give  birth  to  babes, 
What  living  and  buried  speech  is  always  vibrating  here,  what  howls 

restrain'd  by  decorum, 
Arrests  of  criminals,  slights,  adulterous  offers  made,  acceptances, 

rejections  with  convex  lips, 
I  mind  them  or  the  show  or  resonance  of  them  —  I  come  and  I 

depart. 

9 

The  big  doors  of  the  country  barn  stand  open  and  ready, 
The  dried  grass  of  the  harvest-time  loads  the  slow-drawn  wagon, 
The  clear  light  plays  on  the  brown  gray  and  green  intertinged, 
The  armfuls  are  pack'd  to  the  sagging  mow. 

I  am  there,  I  help,  I  came  stretch'd  atop  of  the  load, 

I  felt  its  soft  jolts,  one  leg  reclined  on  the  other, 

I  jump  from  the  cross-beams  and  seize  the  clover  and  timothy, 

And  roll  head  over  heels  and  tangle  my  hair  full  of  wisps. 


36  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


10 

Alone  far  in  the  wilds  and  mountains  I  hunt, 
Wandering  amazed  at  my  own  lightness  and  glee, 
In  the  late  afternoon  choosing  a  safe  spot  to  pass  the  night, 
Kindling  a  fire  and  broiling  the  fresh-kill'd  game, 
Falling  asleep  on  the  gather'd  leaves  with  my  dog  and  gun  by  mj 
side. 

The  Yankee  clipper  is  under  her  sky-sails,  she  cuts  the  sparkle  and 

scud, 
My  eyes  settle  the  land,  I  bend  at  her  prow  or  shout  joyously  from 

the  deck. 

The  boatmen  and  clam-diggers  arose  early  and  stopt  for  me, 

I  tuck'd  my  trowser-ends  in  my  boots  and  went  and  had  a  good 

time ; 
You  should  have  been  with  us  that  day  round  the  chowder-kettle. 

I  saw  the  marriage  of  the  trapper  in  the  open  air  in  the  far  west, 

the  bride  was  a  red  girl, 
Her  father  and   his   friends   sat   near  cross-legged   and   dumbly 

smoking,  they  had  moccasins  to  their  feet  and  large  thick 

blankets  hanging  from  their  shoulders, 
On  a  bank  lounged  the  trapper,  he  was  drest  mostly  in  skins,  his 

luxuriant  beard  and  curls  protected  his  neck,  he  held  his 

bride  by  the  hand, 
She  had  long  eyelashes,  her  head  was  bare,  her  coarse   straight 

locks  descended  upon  her  voluptuous  limbs  and  reach'd  to 

her  feet. 

The  runaway  slave  came  to  my  house  and  stopt  outside, 
I  heard  his  motions  crackling  the  twigs  of  the  woodpile, 
Through  the  swung  half-door  of  the  kitchen  I  saw  him  limpsy  and 

weak, 

And  went  where  he  sat  on  a  log  and  led  him  in  and  assured  him, 
And  brought  water  and  fill'd  a  tub  for  his  sweated  body  and  bruis'd 

feet, 
And  gave  him  a  room  that  enter'd  from  my  own,  and  gave  him 

some  coarse  clean  clothes, 

And  remember  perfectly  well  his  revolving  eyes  and  his  awkwardness, 
And  remember  putting  plasters  on  the  galls  of  his  neck  and  ankles  ; 
He  staid  with  me  a  week  before  he  was  recuperated  and  pass'd 

north, 
I  had  him  sit  next  me  at  table,  my  fire-lock  lean'd  in  the  corner. 


SONG  OF  MYSELF.  37 


ii 

Twenty-eight  young  men  bathe  by  the  shore, 
Twenty-eight  young  men  and  all  so  friendly ; 
Twenty-eight  years  of  womanly  life  and  all  so  lonesome. 

She  owns  the  fine  house  by  the  rise  of  the  bank, 

She  hides  handsome  and  richly  drest  aft  the  blinds  of  the  window, 

Which  of  the  young  men  does  she  like  the  best? 
Ah  the  homeliest  of  them  is  beautiful  to  her. 

Where  are  you  off  to,  lady?  for  I  see  you, 

You  splash  in  the  water  there,  yet  stay  stock  still  in  your  room. 

Dancing  and  laughing  along  the  beach  came  the  twenty-ninth  bather, 
The  rest  did  not  see  her,  but  she  saw  them  and  loved  them. 

The  beards  of  the  young  men  glisten'd  with  wet,  it  ran  from  their 

long  hair, 
Little  streams  pass'd  all  over  their  bodies. 

An  unseen  hand  also  pass'd  over  their  bodies, 

It  descended  tremblingly  from  their  temples  and  ribs. 

The  young  men  float  on  their  backs,  their  white  bellies  bulge  to 
the  sun,  they  do  not  ask  who  seizes  fast  to  them, 

They  do  not  know  who  puffs  and  declines  with  pendant  and  bend 
ing  arch, 

They  do  not  think  whom  they  souse  with  spray. 


The  butcher-boy  puts  off  his  killing-clothes,  or  sharpens  his  knife 

at  the  stall  in  the  market, 
I  loiter  enjoying  his  repartee  and  his  shuffle  and  break-down. 

Blacksmiths  with  grimed  and  hairy  chests  environ  the  anvil, 
Each  has  his  main-sledge,  they  are  all  out,  there  is  a  great  heat  in 
the  fire. 

From  the  cinder-strew'd  threshold  I  follow  their  movements, 
The  lithe  sheer  of  their  waists  plays  even  with  their  massive  arms, 
Overhand  the  hammers  swing,  overhand  so    slow,  overhand  so 

sure, 
They  do  not  hasten,  each  man  hits  in  his  place. 


38  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


13 

The  negro  holds  firmly  the  reins  of  his  four  horses,  the  block  swag?? 

underneath  on  its  tied-over  chain, 
The  negro  that  drives  the  long  dray  of  the  stone-yard,  steady  and 

tall  he  stands  pois'd  on  one  leg  on  the  string-piece, 
His  blue  shirt  exposes  his  ample  neck  and  breast  and  loosens  over 

his  hip-band, 
His  glance  is  calm  and  commanding,  he  tosses  the  slouch  of  his 

hat  away  from  his  forehead, 
The  sun  falls  on  his  crispy  hair  and  mustache,  falls  on  the  black 

of  his  polish'd  and  perfect  limbs. 

I  behold  the  picturesque  giant  and  love  him,  and  I  do  not  stop 

there, 
I  go  with  the  team  also. 

In  me  the  caresser  of  life  wherever  moving,  backward  as  well  as 
forward  sluing, 

To  niches  aside  and  junior  bending,  not  a  person  or  object  miss 
ing, 

Absorbing  all  to  myself  and  for  this  song. 

Oxen  that  rattle  the  yoke  and  chain  or  halt  in  the  leafy  shade, 

what  is  that  you  express  in  your  eyes  ? 
It  seems  to  me  more  than  all  the  print  I  have  read  in  my  life. 

My  tread  scares  the  wood-drake  and  wood-duck  on  my  distant  and 

day-long  ramble, 
They  rise  together,  they  slowly  circle  around. 

I  believe  in  those  wing'd  purposes, 

And  acknowledge  red,  yellow,  white,  playing  within  me, 

And  consider  green  and  violet  and  the  tufted  crown  intentional, 

And  do  not  call  the  tortoise  unworthy  because  she  is  not  something 

else, 
And  the  jay  in  the  woods  never  studied  the  gamut,  yet  trills  prettj 

well  to  me, 
And  the  look  of  the  bay  mare  shames  silliness  out  of  me. 

14 

The  wild  gander  leads  his  flock  through  the  cool  night, 
Ya-honk  he  says,  and  sounds  it  down  to  me  like  an  invitation, 
The  pert  may  suppose  it  meaningless,  but  I  listening  close, 
Find  its  purpose  and  place  up  there  toward  the  wintry  sky 


SOITG  OF  MYSELF.  39 

The  sharp-hoof  d  moose  of  the  north,  the  cat  on  the  house-sill, 

the  chickadee,  the  prairie-dog, 

The  litter  of  the  grunting  sow  as  they  tug  at  her  teats, 
The  brood  of  the  turkey-hen  and  she  with  her  half-spread  wings, 
I  see  in  them  and  myself  the  same  old  law. 

The  press  of  my  foot  to  the  earth  springs  a  hundred  affections, 
They  scorn  the  best  I  can  do  to  relate  them. 

I  am  enamour'd.of  growing  out-doors, 

Of  men  that  live  among  cattle  or  taste  of  the  ocean  or  woods, 

Of  the  builders  and  steerers  of  ships  and  the  wielders  of  axes  and 

mauls,  and  the  drivers  of  horses, 
I  can  eat  and  sleep  with  them  week  in  and  week  out. 

What  is  commonest,  cheapest,  nearest,  easiest,  is  Me, 
Me  going  in  for  my  chances,  spending  for  vast  returns, 
Adorning  myself  to  bestow  myself  on  the  first  that  will  take  me, 
Not  asking  the  sky  to  come  down  to  my  good  will, 
Scattering  it  freely  forever. 


The  pure  contralto  sings  in  the  organ  loft, 

The  carpenter  dresses  his  plank,  the  tongue  of  his  foreplane  whistles 

its  wild  ascending  lisp, 
The  married  and  unmarried  children  ride  home  to  their  Thanks 

giving  dinner, 

The  pilot  seizes  the  king-pin,  he  heaves  down  with  a  strong  arm, 
The  mate  stands  braced  in  the  whale-boat,  lance  and  harpoon  are 

ready, 

The  duck-shooter  walks  by  silent  and  cautious  stretches, 
The  deacons  are  ordain'd  with  cross'd  hands  at  the  altar, 
The  spinning-girl  retreats  and  advances  to  the  hum  of  the  big 

wheel, 
The  farmer  stops  by  the  bars  as  he  walks  on  a  First-day  loafe  and 

looks  at  the  oats  and  rye, 

The  lunatic  is  carried  at  last  to  the  asylum  a  confirm'd  case, 
(He  will  never  sleep  any  more  as  he  did  in  the  cot  in  his  mother's 

bed-room  ;) 

The  jour  printer  with  gray  head  and  gaunt  jaws  works  at  his  case, 
He  turns  his  quid  of  tobacco  while  his  eyes  blurr  with  the  manu 

script  ; 

The  malform'd  limbs  are  tied  to  the  surgeon's  table, 
What  is  removed  drops  horribly  in  a  pail  ; 


40  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


The  quadroon  girl  is  sold  at  the  auction-stand,  the  drunkard  nods 

by  the  bar-room  stove, 
The  machinist  rolls  up  his  sleeves,  the  policeman  travels  his  beat, 

the  gate-keeper  marks  who  pass, 
The  young  fellow  drives  the  express-wagon,  (I  love  him,  though 

I  do  not  know  him ;) 

The  half-breed  straps  on  his  light  boots  to  compete  in  the  race, 
The  western  turkey-shooting  draws  old  and  young,  some  lean  on 

their  rifles,  some  sit  on  logs, 
Out  from  the  crowd  steps  the  marksman,  takes  his  position,  levels 

his  piece ; 

The  groups  of  newly-come  immigrants  cover  the  wharf  or  levee, 
As  the  woolly-pates  hoe  in  the  sugar-field,  the  overseer  views  them 

from  his  saddle, 

The  bugle  calls  in  the  ball-room,  the  gentlemen  run  for  their  part 
ners,  the  dancers  bow  to  each  other, 
The  youth  lies  awake  in  the  cedar-roof  d  garret  and  harks  to  the 

musical  rain, 

The  Wolverine  sets  traps  on  the  creek  that  helps  fill  the  Huron, 
The  squaw  wrapt  in  her  yellow-hemm'd  cloth  is  offering  moccasins 

and  bead-bags  for  sale, 
The  connoisseur  peers  along  the  exhibition-gallery  with  half-shut 

eyes  bent  sideways, 
As  the  deck-hands  make  fast  the  steamboat  the  plank  is  thrown  for 

the  shore-going  passengers, 
The  young  sister  holds  out  the  skein  while  the  elder  sister  winds  it 

off  in  a  ball,  and  stops  now  and  then  for  the  knots, 
The  one-year  wife  is  recovering  and  happy  having  a  week  ago 

borne  her  first  child, 
The  clean-hair'd  Yankee  girl  works  with  her  sewing-machine  or  in 

the  factory  or  mill, 
The  paving-man  leans  on  his  two-handed  rammer,  the  reporter's 

lead  flies  swiftly  over  the  note-book,  the  sign-painter  is 

lettering  with  blue  and  gold, 
The  canal  boy  trots  on  the  tow-path,  the  book-keeper  counts  at 

his  desk,  the  shoemaker  waxes  his  thread, 
The  conductor  beats  time  for  the  band  and  all  the  performers 

follow  him, 

The  child  is  baptized,  the  convert  is  making  his  first  professions, 
The  regatta  is  spread  on  the  bay,  the  race  is  begun,  (how  the 

white  sails  sparkle  !) 
The  drover  watching  his  drove  sings  out    to  them  that  would 

stray, 
The  pedler  sweats  with  his  pack  on  his  back,  (the  purchaser  hig-» 

gling  about  the  odd  cent ;) 


SONG  OF  MYSELF.  41 

The  bride  unrumples  her  white  dress,  the  minute-hand  of  the  clod- 

moves  slowly, 

The  opium-eater  reclines  with  rigid  head  and  just-open'd  lips, 
The  prostitute  draggles  her  shawl,  her  bonnet  bobs  on  her  tipsy 

and  pimpled  neck, 
The  crowd  laugh  at  her  blackguard  oaths,  the  men  jeer  and  wink 

to  each  other, 

(Miserable  !  I  do  not  laugh  at  your  oaths  nor  jeer  you  ;) 
The  President  holding  a  cabinet  council  is  surrounded  by  the  great 

Secretaries, 
On  the  piazza  walk  three  matrons  stately  and  friendly  with  twined 

arms, 
The  crew  of  the  fish-smack  pack  repeated  layers  of  halibut  in  the 

hold, 

The  Missourian  crosses  the  plains  toting  his  wares  and  his  cattle, 
As  the  fare-collector  goes  through  the  train  he  gives  notice  by  the 

jingling  of  loose  change, 
The  floor-men  are  laying  the  floor,  the  tinners  are  tinning  the  roof, 

the  masons  are  calling  for  mortar, 

In  single  file  each  shouldering  his  hod  pass  onward  the  laborers ; 
Seasons  pursuing  each  other  the  indescribable  crowd  is  gather'd, 

it  is  the  fourth  of  Seventh-month,  (what  salutes  of  cannon 

and  small  arms  !) 
Seasons  pursuing  each  other  the  plougher  ploughs,  the  mower 

mows,  and  the  winter-grain  falls  in  the  ground ; 
Off  on  the  lakes  the  pike-fisher  watches  and  waits  by  the  hole  in 

the  frozen  surface, 
The  stumps  stand  thick  round  the  clearing,  the  squatter  strikes 

deep  with  his  axe, 
Flatboatmen  make  fast  towards  dusk  near  the  cotton-wood  or 

pecan-trees, 
Coon-seekers  go  through  the  regions  of  the  Red  river  or  through 

those  drain 'd  by  the  Tennessee,  or  through  those  of  the 

Arkansas, 
Torches  shine  in  the  dark  that  hangs  on  the  Chattahooche  or 

Altamahaw, 

Patriarchs  sit  at  supper  with  sons  and  grandsons  and  great-grand 
sons  around  them, 
In  walls  of  adobie,  in  canvas  tents,  rest  hunters  and  trappers  after 

their  day's  sport, 

The  city  sleeps  and  the  country  sleeps, 
The  living  sleep  for  their  time,  the  dead  sleep  for  their  time, 
The  old  husband  sleeps  by  his  wife  and  the  young  husband  sleeps 

by  his  wife  ; 
And  these  tend  inward  to  me,  and  I  tend  outward  to  them, 


42  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

And  such  as  it  is  to  be  of  these  more  or  less  I  am, 
And  of  these  one  and  all  I  weave  the  song  of  myself. 

16 

I  am  of  old  and  young,  of  the  foolish  as  much  as  the  wise, 

Regardless  of  others,  ever  regardful  of  others, 

Maternal  as  well  as  paternal,  a  child  as  well  as  a  man, 

Stuff'd  with  the  stuff  that  is  coarse  and  stuff'd  with  the  stuff  that 
is  fine, 

One  of  the  Nation  of  many  nations,  the  smallest  the  same  and  the 
largest  the  same, 

A  Southerner  soon  as  a  Northerner,  a  planter  nonchalant  and 
hospitable  down  by  the  Oconee  I  live, 

A  Yankee  bound  my  own  way  ready  for  trade,  my  joints  the 
limberest  joints  on  earth  and  the  sternest  joints  on 
earth, 

A  Kentuckian  walking  the  vale  of  the  Elkhorn  in  my  deer-skin 
leggings,  a  Louisianian  or  Georgian, 

A  boatman  over  lakes  or  bays  or  along  coasts,  a  Hoosier,  Badger, 
Buckeye ; 

At  home  on  Kanadian  snow-shoes  or  up  in  the  bush,  or  with 
fishermen  off  Newfoundland, 

At  home  in  the  fleet  of  ice-boats,  sailing  with  the  rest  and  tack 
ing, 

At  home  on  the  hills  of  Vermont  or  in  the  woods  of  Maine,  or  the 
Texan  ranch, 

Comrade  of  Californians,  comrade  of  free  North- Westerners,  (lov 
ing  their  big  proportions,) 

Comrade  of  raftsmen  and  coalmen,  comrade  of  all  who  shake 
hands  and  welcome  to  drink  and  meat, 

A  learner  with  the  simplest,  a  teacher  of  the  thoughtfullest, 

A  novice  beginning  yet  experient  of  myriads  of  seasons, 

Of  every  hue  and  caste  am  I,  of  every  rank  and  religion, 

A  farmer,  mechanic,  artist,  gentleman,  sailor,  quaker, 

Prisoner,  fancy-man,  rowdy,  lawyer,  physician,  priest. 

I  resist  any  thing  better  than  my  own  diversity, 
Breathe  the  air  but  leave  plenty  after  me, 
And  am  not  stuck  up,  and  am  in  my  place. 

(The  moth  and  the  fish-eggs  are  in  their  place, 

The  bright  suns  I  see  and  the  dark  suns  I  cannot  see  are  in  theit 

place,  _ 
The  palpable  is  in  its  place  and  the  impalpable  is  in  its  place.) 


SONG  OF  MYSELF.  43 

17 

These  are  really  the  thoughts  of  all  men  in  all  ages  and  lands,  they 

are  not  original  with  me, 
If  they  are  not  yours  as  much  as  mine  they  are  nothing,  or  next 

to  nothing, 
If  they  are  not  the  riddle  and  the  untying  of  the  riddle  they  are 

nothing, 
If  they  are  not  just  as  close  as  they  are  distant  they  are  nothing. 

This  is  the  grass  that  grows  wherever  the  land  is  and  the  water  is, 
This  the  common  air  that  bathes  the  globe. 

18 

With  music  strong  I  come,  with  my  cornets  and  my  drums, 
I  play  not  marches  for  accepted  victors  only,  I  play  marches  for 
conquer'd  and  slain  persons. 

Have  you  heard  that  it  was  good  to  gain  the  day? 
I  also  say  it  is  good  to  fall,  battles  are  lost  in  the  same  spirit  in 
which  they  are  won. 

I  beat  and  pound  for  the  dead, 

I  blow  through  my  embouchures  my  loudest  and  gayest  for  them. 

Vivas  to  those  who  have  fail'd  ! 
And  to  those  whose  war-vessels  sank  in  the  sea  ! 
And  to  those  themselves  who  sank  in  the  sea ! 
And  to  all  generals  that  lost  engagements,  and  all  overcome  heroes  ! 
And  the  numberless  unknown  heroes  equal  to  the  greatest  heroes 
known  ! 

19 

This  is  the  meal  equally  set,  this  the  meat  for  natural  hunger, 
It  is  for  the  wicked  just  the  same  as  the  righteous,  I  make  appoint 
ments  with  all, 

I  will  not  have  a  single  person  slighted  or  left  away, 
The  kept-woman,  sponger,  thief,  are  hereby  invited, 
The  heavy-lipp'd  slave  is  invited,  the  venerealee  is  invited ; 
There  shall  be  no  difference  between  them  and  the  rest. 

This  is  the  press  of  a  bashful  hand,  this  the  float  and  odor  of  hair. 
This  the  touch  of  my  lips  to  yours,  this  the  murmur  of  yearning, 
This  the  far-off  depth  and  height  reflecting  my  own  face, 
This  the  thoughtful  merge  of  myself,  and  the  outlet  again. 
4 


44  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Do  you  guess  I  have  some  intricate  purpose? 
Well  I  have,  for  the  Fourth-month  showers  have,  and  the  mica  on 
the  side  of  a  rock  has. 

Do  you  take  it  I  would  astonish  ? 

Does  the  daylight  astonish?   does  the   early  redstart  twittering 

through  the  woods  ? 
Do  I  astonish  more  than  they  ? 

This  hour  I  tell  things  in  confidence, 

I  might  not  tell  everybody,  but  I  will  tell  you. 

20 

Who  goes  there  ?  hankering,  gross,  mystical,  nude ; 
How  is  it  I  extract  strength  from  the  beef  I  eat? 

What  is  a  man  anyhow  ?  what  am  I  ?  what  are  you  ? 

All  I  mark  as  my  own  you  shall  offset  it  with  your  own, 
Else  it  were  time  lost  listening  to  me. 

I  do  not  snivel  that  snivel  the  world  over, 

That  months  are  vacuums  and  the  ground  but  wallow  and  filth. 

Whimpering  and  truckling  fold  with  powders  for  invalids,  con 
formity  goes  to  the  fourth-remov'd, 
I  wear  my  hat  as  I  please  indoors  or  out. 

Why  should  I  pray  ?  why  should  I  venerate  and  be  ceremonious  ? 

Having  pried  through  the  strata,  analyzed  to  a  hair,  counsel'd  with 

doctors  and  calculated  close, 
I  find  no  sweeter  fat  than  sticks  to  my  own  bones. 

In  all  people  I  see  myself,  none  more  and  not  one  a  barley-corn 

less, 
And  the  good  or  bad  I  say  of  myself  I  say  of  them. 

I  know  I  am  solid  and  sound, 

To  me  the  converging  objects  of  the  universe  perpetually  flow, 

All  are  written  to  me,  and  I  must  get  what  the  writing  means. 

I  know  I  am  deathless, 

I  know  this  orbit  of  mine  cannot  be  swept  by  a  carpenter's 
compass, 


SONG  OF  MYSELF.  45 


I  know  I  shall  not  pass  like  a  child's  carlacue  cut  with  a  burnt 

stick  at  night. 

I  know  I  am  august, 

I  do  not  trouble  my  spirit  to  vindicate  itself  or  be  understood, 
I  see  that  the  elementary  laws  never  apologize, 
( I  reckon  I  behave  no  prouder  than  the  level  I  plant  my  house  by, 
after  all.) 

I  exist  as  I  am,  that  is  enough, 

If  no  other  in  the  world  be  aware  I  sit  content, 

And  if  each  and  all  be  aware  I  sit  content. 

One  world  is  aware  and  by  far  the  largest  to  me,  and  that  is  my 
self, 

And  whether  I  come  to  my  own  to-day  or  in  ten  thousand  or  ten 
million  years, 

I  can  cheerfully  take  it  now,  or  with  equal  cheerfulness  I  can  wait. 

;  My  foothold  is  tenon'd  and  mortis'd  in  granite, 
1 1  laugh  at  what  you  call  dissolution, 
jiAnd  I  know  the  amplitude  of  time. 

21 

I  am  the  poet  of  the  Body  and  I  am  the  poet  of  the  Soul, 

The  pleasures  of  heaven  are  with  me  and  the  pains  of  hell  are 

with  me, 
The  first  I  graft  and  increase  upon  myself,  the  latter  I  translate 

into  a  new  tongue. 

I  am  the  poet  of  the  woman  the  same  as  the  man, 
And  I  say  it  is  as  great  to  be  a  woman  as  to  be  a  man, 
And  I  say  there  is  nothing  greater  than  the  mother  of  men. 

I  chant  the  chant  of  dilation  or  pride, 

We  have  had  ducking  and  deprecating  about  enough, 

I  show  that  size  is  only  development. 

Have  you  outstript  the  rest?  are  you  the  President? 
It  is  a  trifle,  they  will  more  than  arrive  there  every  one,  and  still 
pass  on. 

I  am  he  that  walks  with  the  tender  and  growing  night, 
I  call  to  the  earth  and  sea  half-held  by  the  night. 


46  LEA  FES  OF  GRASS. 

Press  close  bare-bosom'd  night — press  close  magnetic  nourishing 

night ! 

Night  of  south  winds  —  night  of  the  large  few  stars  ! 
Still  nodding  night — mad  naked  summer  night. 

Smile  O  voluptuous  cool-breath'd  earth  ! 

Earth  of  the  slumbering  and  liquid  trees  ! 

Earth  of  departed  sunset — earth  of  the  mountains  misty- topt ! 

Earth  of  the  vitreous  pour  of  the  full  moon  just  tinged  with  blue  ! 

Earth  of  shine  and  dark  mottling  the  tide  of  the  river  ! 

Earth  of  the  limpid  gray  of  clouds  brighter  and  clearer  for  my 

sake  ! 

Far-swooping  elbow'd  earth  —  rich  apple-blossom'd  earth  ! 
Smile,  for  your  lover  comes. 

Prodigal,  you  have  given  me  love — therefore  I  to  you  give  love  ! 

0  unspeakable  passionate  love. 

22 

You  sea  !  I  resign  myself  to  you  also  —  I  guess  what  you  mean, 

1  behold  from  the  beach  your  crooked  inviting  fingers, 
I  believe  you  refuse  to  go  back  without  feeling  of  me, 

We  must  have  a  turn  together,  I  undress,  hurry  me  out  of  sight  of 

the  land, 

Cushion  me  soft,  rock  me  in  billowy  drowse, 
Dash  me  with  amorous  wet,  I  can  repay  you. 

Sea  of  stretch'd  ground-swells, 

Sea  breathing  broad  and  convulsive  breaths, 

Sea  of  the  brine  of  life  and  of  unshovell'd  yet  always-ready  graves, 

Howler  and  scooper  of  storms,  capricious  and  dainty  sea, 

I  am  integral  with  you,  I  too  am  of  one  phase  and  of  all  phases. 

Partaker  of  influx  and  efflux  I,  extoller  of  hate  and  conciliation, 
Extoller  of  amies  and  those  that  sleep  in  each  others'  arms. 

I  am  he  attesting  sympathy, 

(Shall  I  make  my  list  of  things  in  the  house  and  skip  the  house 
that  supports  them  ?) 

1  am  not  the  poet  of  goodness  only,  I  do  not  decline  to  be  the 
poet  of  wickedness  also. 

What  blurt  is  this  about  virtue  and  about  vice  ? 

Evil  propels  me  and  reform  of  evil  propels  me,  I  stand  indifferent, 


SOKG  OF  MYSELF.  47 

My  gait  js  no  fault-finder's  or  rejecter's  gait, 
I  moisten  the  roots  of  all  that  has  grown. 

Did  you  fear  some  scrofula  out  of  the  unflagging  pregnancy  ? 
Did  you  guess  the  celestial  laws  are  yet  to  be  work'd  over  and 
rectified  ? 

I  find  one  side  a  balance  and  the  antipodal  side  a  balance, 

Soft  doctrine  as  steady  help  as  stable  doctrine, 

Thoughts  and  deeds  of  the  present  our  rouse  and  early  start. 

This  minute  that  comes  to  me  over  ths  past  decillions, 
There  is  no  better  than  it  and  now. 

What  behaved  well  in  the  past  or  behaves  well  to-day  is  not  such 

a  wonder, 
The  wonder  is  always  and  always  how  there  can  be  a  mean  man 

or  an  infidel 

23 

Endless  unfolding  of  words  of  ages  ! 

And  mine  a  word  of  the  modern,  the  word  En-Masse. 

A  word  of  the  faith  that  never  balks, 

Here  or  henceforward  it  is  all  the  same  to  me,  I  accept  Time  abso 
lutely. 

It  alone  is  without  flaw,  it  alone  rounds  and  completes  all, 
That  mystic  baffling  wonder  alone  completes  all. 

I  accept  Reality  and  dare  not  question  it, 
Materialism  first  and  last  imbuing. 

Hurrah  for  positive  science  !  long  live  exact  demonstration  ! 

Fetch  stonecrop  mixt  with  cedar  and  branches  of  lilac, 

This  is  the  lexicographer,  this  the  chemist,  this  made  a  grammar 

of  the  old  cartxmches, 

These  mariners  putlhe^hip  through  dangerous  unknown  seas, 
This  is  the  geologist,  this  works  with  the  scalpel,  and  this  is  3 

mathematician. 

Gentlemen,  to  you  the  first  honors  always  ! 

Your  facts  are  useful,  and  yet  they  are  not  my  dwelling, 

I  but  enter  by  them  to  an  area  of  my  dwelling. 


48  L&AVES  OF  GRASS. 

Less  the  reminders  of  properties  told  my  words, 

And  more  the  reminders  they  of  life  untold,  and  of  freedom  and 

extrication, 
And  make  short  account  of  neuters  and  geldings,  and  favor  men 

and  women  fully  equipt, 
And  beat  the  gong  of  revolt,  and  stop  with  fugitives  and  them  that 

plot  and  conspire. 

24 

Walt  Whitman,  a  kosmos,  of  Manhattan  the  son, 

Turbulent,  fleshy,  sensual,  eating,  drinking  and  breeding, 

No  sentimentalist,  no  stander  above  men  and  women  or  apart  from 

them, 
No  more  modest  than  immodest. 

Unscrew  the  locks  from  the  doors  ! 

Unscrew  the  doors  themselves  from  their  jambs  ! 

Whoever  degrades  another  degrades  me, 

And  whatever  is  done  or  said  returns  at  last  to  me. 

Through  me  the  afflatus  surging  and  surging,  through  me  the  cur 
rent  and  index. 

I  speak  the  pass-word  primeval,  I  give  the  sign  of  democracy, 
By  God  !  I  will  accept  nothing  which  all  cannot  have  their  coun 
terpart  of  on  the  same  terms. 

Through  me  many  long  dumb  voices, 

Voices  of  the  interminable  generations  of  prisoners  and  slaves, 

Voices  of  the  diseas'd  and  despairing  and  of  thieves  and  dwarfs, 

Voices  of  cycles  of  preparation  and  accretion, 

And  of  the  threads  that  connect  the  stars,  and  of  wombs  and  of 

the  father-stuff, 

And  of  the  rights  of  them  the  others  are  down  upon, 
Of  the  deform'd,  trivial,  flat,  foolish,  despised, 
Fog  in  the  air,  beetles  rolling  balls  of  dung. 

Through  me  forbidden  voices, 

Voices  of  sexes  and  lusts,  voices  veil'd  and  I  remove  the  veil, 

Voices  indecent  by  me  clarified  and  transfigur'd. 

I  do  not  press  my  fingers  across  my  mouth, 

I  keep  as  delicate  around  the  bowels  as  around  the  head  and  heart, 

Copulation  is  no  more  rank  to  me  than  death  is. 


SONG  OF  MYSELF.  49 

I  believe  in  the  flesh  and  the  appetites, 

Seeing,  hearing,  feeling,  are  miracles,  and  each  part  and  tag  of  me 
is  a  miracle. 

Divine  am  I  inside  and  out,  and  I  make  holy  whatever  I  touch  or 

am  touch'd  from, 

The  scent  of  these  arm-pits  aroma  finer  than  prayer, 
This  head  more  than  churches,  bibles,  and  all  the  creeds. 

If  I  worship  one  thing  more  than  another  it  shall  be  the  spread  of 

my  own  body,  or  any  part  of  it, 
Translucent  mould  of  me  it  shall  be  you  ! 
Shaded  ledges  and  rests  it  shall  be  you  ! 
Firm  masculine  colter  it  shall  be  you  ! 
Whatever  goes  to  the  tilth  of  me  it  shall  be  you  ! 
You  my  rich  blood  !  your  milky  stream  pale  strippings  of  my  life  1 
Breast  that  presses  against  other  breasts  it  shall  be  you  ! 
My  brain  it  shall  be  your  occult  convolutions  ! 
Root  of  wash'd  sweet-flag  !  timorous  pond-snipe  !  nest  of  guarded 

duplicate  eggs  !  it  shall  be  you  ! 

Mix'd  tussled  hay  of  head,  beard,  brawn,  it  shall  be  you  ! 
Trickling  sap  of  maple,  fibre  of  manly  wheat,  it  shall  be  you  ! 
Sun  so  generous  it  shall  be  you  ! 
Vapors  lighting  and  shading  my  face  it  shall  be  you  ! 
You  sweaty  brooks  and  dews  it  shall  be  you  ! 
Winds  whose  soft-tickling  genitals  rub  against  me  it  shall  be  you  ! 
Broad  muscular  fields,  branches  of  live  oak,  loving  lounger  in  my 

winding  paths,  it  shall  be  you  ! 
Hands   I   have   taken,  face   I   have   kiss'd,  mortal  I  have  ever 

touch'd,  it  shall  be  you. 

I  dote  on  myself,  there  is  that  lot  of  me  and  all  so  luscious, 

Each  moment  and  whatever  happens  thrills  me  with  joy, 

I  cannot  tell  how  my  ankles  bend,  nor  whence  the  cause  of  my 

faintest  wish, 

Nor  the  cause  of  the  friendship  I  emit,  nor  the  cause  of  the  friend 
ship  I  take  again. 

That  I  walk  up  my  stoop,  I  pause  to  consider  if  it  really  be, 
A  morning-glory  at  my  window  satisfies  me  more  than  the  meta- 
physics  of  books. 

f  o  behold  the  day-break  ! 

The  little  light  fades  the  immense  and  diaphanous  shadows, 

The  air  tastes  good  to  my  palate. 


SO  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Hefts  of  the  moving  world  at  innocent  gambols  silently  rising, 

freshly  exuding, 
Scooting  obliquely  high  and  low. 

Something  I  cannot  see  puts  upward  libidinous  prongs, 
Seas  of  bright  juice  suffuse  heaven. 

The  earth  by  the  sky  staid  with,  the  daily  close  of  their  junction, 
The  heav'd  challenge  from  the  east  that  moment  over  my  head, 
The  mocking  taunt,  See  then  whether  you  shall  be  master  ! 

25 

Dazzling  and  tremendous  how  quick  the  sun-rise  would  kill  me, 
If  I  could  not  now  and  always  send  sun-rise  out  of  me. 

We  also  ascend  dazzling  and  tremendous  as  the  sun, 
We  found  our  own  O  my  soul  in  the  calm  and  cool  of  the  day 
break. 

My  voice  goes  after  what  my  eyes  cannot  reach, 
With  the  twirl  of  my  tongue  I  encompass  worlds  and  volumes  of 
worlds. 

Speech  is  the  twin  of  my  vision,  it  is  unequal  to  measure  itself, 

It  provokes  me  forever,  it  says  sarcastically, 

Walt  you  contain  enough,  why  don't  you  let  it  out  then  ? 

Come  now  I  will  not  be  tantalized,  you  conceive  too  much  of 

articulation, 

Do  you  not  know  O  speech  how  the  buds  beneath  you  are  folded  ? 
Waiting  in  gloom,  protected  by  frost, 
The  dirt  receding  before  my  prophetical  screams, 
I  underlying  causes  to  balance  them  at  last, 
My  knowledge  my  live  parts,  it  keeping  tally  with  the  meaning  of 

all  things, 
Happiness,  (which  whoever  hears  me  let  him  or  her  set  out  in 

search  of  this  day.) 

My  final  merit  I  refuse  you,  I  refuse  putting  from  me  what  I  really 

am, 

Encompass  worlds,  but  never  try  to  encompass  me, 
I  crowd  your  sleekest  and  best  by  simply  looking  toward  you. 

Writing  and  talk  do  not  prove  me, 

I  carry  the  plenum  of  proof  and  every  thing  else  in  my  face, 

With  the  husH  of  my  lips  I  wholly  confound  the  skeptic. 


SONG  OP  MYSELF.  51 


26 

Now  I  will  do  nothing  but  listen, 

To  accrue  what  I  hear  into  this  song,  to  let  sounds  contribute 
toward  it. 

I  hear  bravuras  of  birds,  bustle  of  growing  wheat,  gossip  of  flames, 

clack  of  sticks  cooking  my  meals, 
1  hear  the  sound  I  love,  the  sound  of  the  human  voice, 
I  hear  all  sounds  running  together,  combined,  fused  or  following, 
Sounds  of  the  city  and  sounds  out  of  the  city,  sounds  of  the  day 

and  night, 
Talkative  young  ones  to  those  that  like  them,  the  loud  laugh  of 

work-people  at  their  meals, 

The  angry  base  of  disjointed  friendship,  the  faint  tones  of  the  sick, 
The  judge  with  hands  tight  to  the  desk,  his  pallid  lips  pronoun 
cing  a  death-sentence, 
The  heave'e'yo  of  stevedores  unlading  ships  by  the  wharves,  the 

refrain  of  the  anchor-lifters, 

The  ring  of  alarm-bells,  the  cry  of  fire,  the  whirr  of  swift-streak 
ing  engines  and  hose-carts  with  premonitory  tinkles  and 
color'd  lights, 

The  steam- whistle,  the  solid  roll  of  the  train  of  approaching  cars, 
The  slow  march  play'd  at  the  head  of  the  association  marching 

two  and  two, 

(They  go  to  guard  some  corpse,  the  flag-tops  are  draped  with 
black  muslin.) 

I  hear  the  violoncello,  ('tis  the  young  man's  heart's  complaint,) 
I  hear  the  key'd  cornet,  it  glides  quickly  in  through  my  ears, 
It  shakes  mad-sweet  pangs  through  my  belly  and  breast. 

I  hear  the  chorus,  it  is  a  grand  opera, 
Ah  this  indeed  is  music  —  this  suits  me. 

A  tenor  large  and  fresh  as  the  creation  fills  me, 

The  orbic  flex  of  his  mouth  is  pouring  and  filling  me  full. 

I  hear  the  train'd  soprano  (what  work  with  hers  is  this?) 

The  orchestra  whirls  me  wider  than  Uranus  flies, 

It  wrenches   such   ardors  from  me  I  did  not  know  I  possess'd 

them, 
It  sails  me,  I  dab  with  bare  feet,  they  are  lick'd  by  the  indolent 

waves, 
I  am  cut  by  bitter  and  angry  hail,  I  lose  my  breath, 


52  LEA  FES  OF  GRASS. 


Steep 'd  amid  honey 'd  morphine,  my  windpipe  throttled  in  fakes 

of  death, 

At  length  let  up  again  to  feel  the  puzzle  of  puzzles, 
And  that  we  call  Being. 

27 

To  be  in  any  form,  what  is  that? 

(Round  and  round  we  go,  all  of  us,  and  ever  come  back  thither,) 
If  nothing  lay  more  develop'd  the  quahaug  in  its  callous  shell  were 
enough. 

Mine  is  no  callous  shell, 

I  have  instant  conductors  all  over  me  whether  I  pass  or  stop, 

They  seize  every  object  and  lead  it  harmlessly  through  me. 

I  merely  stir,  press,  feel  with  my  fingers,  and  am  happy, 
To  touch  my  person  to  some  one  else's  is  about  as  much  as  I  can 
stand. 

28 

Is  this  then  a  touch  ?  quivering  me  to  a  new  identity, 

Flames  and  ether  making  a  rush  for  my  veins, 

Treacherous  tip  of  me  reaching  and  crowding  to  help  them, 

My  flesh  and  blood  playing  out  lightning  to  strike  what  is  hardly 

different  from  myself, 

On  all  sides  prurient  provokers  stiffening  my  limbs, 
Straining  the  udder  of  my  heart  for  its  withheld  drip, 
Behaving  licentious  toward  me,  taking  no  denial, 
Depriving  me  of  my  best  as  for  a  purpose, 
Unbuttoning  my  clothes,  holding  me  by  the  bare  waist, 
Deluding  my  confusion  with  the  calm  of  the  sunlight  and  pasture- 
fields, 

Immodestly  sliding  the  fellow-senses  away, 
They  bribed  to  swap  off  with  touch  and  go  and  graze  at  the  edges 

of  me, 

No  consideration,  no  regard  for  my  draining  strength  or  my  anger, 
Fetching  the  rest  of  the  herd  around  to  enjoy  them  a  while, 
Then  all  uniting  to  stand  on  a  headland  and  worry  me. 

The  sentries  desert  every  other  part  of  me, 

They  have  left  me  helpless  to  a  red  marauder, 

They  all  come  to  the  headland  to  witness  and  assist  against  me. 

I  am  given  up  by  traitors, 

I  talk  wildly,  I  have  lost  my  wits,  I  and  nobody  else  am  the 
greatest  traitor, 


SONG  OF  MYSELF  53 


I  went  myself  first  to  the  headland,  my  own  hands  carried  me 
there. 

You  villain  touch  !  what  are  you  doing  ?  my  breath  is  tight  in  its 

throat, 
Unclench  your  floodgates,  you  are  too  much  for  me. 

29 

Blind    loving   wrestling   touch,    sheath'd    hooded    sharp-tooth'd 

touch ! 
Did  it  make  you  ache  so,  leaving  me? 

Parting  track'd  by  arriving,  perpetual  payment  of  perpetual  loan, 
Rich  showering  rain,  and  recompense  richer  afterward. 

Sprouts  take  and  accumulate,  stand  by  the  curb  prolific  and  vital, 
Landscapes  projected  masculine,  full-sized  and  golden. 

30 

All  truths  wait  in  all  things, 

They  neither  hasten  their  own  delivery  nor  resist  it, 
They  do  not  need  the  obstetric  forceps  of  the  surgeon, 
The  insignificant  is  as  big  to  me  as  any, 
(What  is  less  or  more  than  a  touch  ?) 

Logic  and  sermons  never  convince, 

The  damp  of  the  night  drives  deeper  into  my  soul. 

(Only  what  proves  itself  to  every  man  and  woman  is  so, 
Only  what  nobody  denies  is  so.) 

A  minute  and  a  drop  of  me  settle  my  brain, 

I  believe  the  soggy  clods  shall  become  lovers  and  lamps, 

And  a  cprnpend  of  compends  is  the  meat  of  a  man  or  woman, 

And  a  summit  and  flower  there  is  the  feeling  they  have  for  each 

other, 
And  they  are  to  branch  boundlessly  out  of  that  lesson  until  it 

becomes  omnific, 
And  until  one  and  all  shall  delight  us,  and  we  them, 

3' 

I  believe  a  leaf  of  grass  is  no  less  than  the  journey-work  of  the  stars, 
And  the  pismire  is  equally  perfect,  and  a  grain  of  sand,  and  the 
egg  of  the  wren, 


54  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

And  the  tree-toad  is  a  chef-d'oeuvre  for  the  highest, 
And  the  running  blackberry  would  adorn  the  parlors  of  heaven, 
And  the  narrowest  hinge  in  my  hand  puts  to  scorn  all  machinery, 
And  the  cow  crunching  with  depress'd  head  surpasses  any  statue, 
And  a  mouse  is  miracle  enough  to  stagger  sextillions  of  infidels. 

I  find  I  incorporate  gneiss,  coal,  long-threaded  moss,  fruits,  grains, 

esculent  roots, 

And  am  stucco'd  with  quadrupeds  and  birds  all  over, 
And  have  distanced  what  is  behind  me  for  good  reasons, 
But  call  any  thing  back  again  when  I  desire  it. 

In  vain  the  speeding  or  shyness, 

In  vain  the  plutonic  rocks  send  their  old  heat  against  my  approach, 

In  vain  the  mastodon  retreats  beneath  its  own  powder'd  bones, 

In  vain  objects  stand  leagues  off  and  assume  manifold  shapes, 

In  vain  the  ocean  settling  in  hollows  and  the  great  monsters  lying 

low, 

In  vain  the  buzzard  houses  herself  with  the  sky, 
In  vain  the  snake  slides  through  the  creepers  and  logs, 
In  vain  the  elk  takes  to  the  inner  passes  of  the  woods, 
In  vain  the  razor-bill'd  auk  sails  far  north  to  Labrador, 
I  follow  quickly,  I  ascend  to  the  nest  in  the  fissure  of  the  cliff. 


32 

I  think  I  could  turn  and  live  with  animals,  they  are  so  placid  and 

self-contain'd, 
I  stand  and  look  at  them  long  and  long. 

They  do  not  sweat  and  whine  about  their  condition, 

They  do  not  lie  awake  in  the  dark  and  weep  for  their  sins, 

They  do  not  make  me  sick  discussing  their  duty  to  God, 

Not  one  is  dissatisfied,  not  one  is  demented  with  the  mania  of 

owning  things, 
Not  one  kneels  to  another,  nor  to  his  kind  that  lived  thousands  of 

years  ago, 
Not  one  is  respectable  or  unhappy  over  the  whole  earth. 

So  they  show  their  relations  to  me  arid  I  accept  them, 

They  bring  me  tokens  of  myself,  they  evince  them  plainly  in  theii 

possession. 

I  wonder  where  they  get  those  tokens, 

Did  I  pass  that  way  huge  times  ago  and  negligently  drop  them? 


SONG   OF  AlYSELF.  55 

Myself  moving  forward  then  and  now  and  forever, 
Gathering  and  showing  more  always  and  with  velocity, 
Infinite  and  omnigenous,  and  the  like  of  these  among  them 
Not  too  exclusive  toward  the  reachers  of  my  remembrancers, 
Picking  out  here  one  that  I  love,  and  now  go  with  him  on  brotherly 
terms. 

A  gigantic  beauty  of  a  stallion,  fresh  and  responsive  to  my  caresses, 

Head  high  in  the  forehead,  wide  between  the  ears, 

Limbs  glossy  and  supple,  tail  dusting  the  ground, 

Eyes  full  of  sparkling  wickedness,  ears  finely  cut,  flexibly  moving. 

His  nostrils  dilate  as  my  heels  embrace  him, 

His  well-built  limbs  tremble  with  pleasure  as  we  race  around  and 
return. 

I  but  use  you  a  minute,  then  I  resign  you,  stallion, 

Why  do  I  need  your  paces  when  I  myself  out-gallop  them? 

Even  as  I  stand  or  sit  passing  faster  than  you. 


33 

Space  and  Time  !  now  I  see  it  is  true,  what  I  guess'd  at, 
What  I  guess'd  when  I  loaf'd  on  the  grass, 
What  I  guess'd  while  I  lay  alone  in  my  bed, 
And  again  as  I  walk'd  the  beach  under  the  paling  stars  of  the, 
morning. 

My  ties  and  ballasts  leave  me,  my  elbows  rest  in  sea-gaps, 
I  skirt  sierras,  my  palms  cover  continents, 
I  am  afoot  with  my  vision. 

By  the  city's  quadrangular  houses  —  in   log   huts,  camping  with 

lumbermen, 

Along  the  ruts  of  the  turnpike,  along  the  dry  gulch  and  rivulet  bed, 
Weeding  my  onion-patch  or  hoeing  rows  of  carrots  and  parsnips, 

crossing  savannas,  trailing  in  forests, 

Prospecting,  gold-digging,  girdling  the  trees  of  a  new  purchase, 
Scorch'd  ankle-deep  by  the  hot  sand,  hauling  my  boat  down  the 

shallow  river, 
Where  the  panther  walks  to  and  fro  on  a  limb  overhead,  where 

the  buck  turns  furiously  at  the  hunter, 
Where  the  rattlesnake  suns  his  flabby  length  on  a  rock,  where  the 

otter  is  feeding  on  fish, 
Where  the  alligator  in  his  tough  pimples  sleeps  by  the  bayou, 


$  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Where  the  black  bear  is  searching  for  roots  or  honey,  where  the 

beaver  pats  the  mud  with  his  paddle-shaped  tail ; 
Over  the  growing  sugar,  over  the  yellow-flower'd  cotton  plant,  over 

the  rice  in  its  low  moist  field, 
Over  the  sharp-peak'd  farm  house,  with  its  scallop'd  scum  and 

slender  shoots  from  the  gutters, 
Over  the  western  persimmon,  over  the  long-leav'd  corn,  over  the 

delicate  blue-flower  flax, 
Over  the  white  and  brown  buckwheat,  a  hummer  and  buzzer  there 

with  the  rest, 
Over  the  dusky  green  of  the  rye  as  it  ripples  and  shades  in  the 

breeze ; 
Scaling  mountains,  pulling  myself  cautiously  up,  holding  on  by  low 

scragged  limbs, 
Walking  the  path  worn  in  the  grass  and  beat  through  the  leaves  of 

the  brush, 

Where  the  quail  is  whistling  betwixt  the  woods  and  the  wheat-lot, 
Where  the  bat  flies  in  the  Seventh-month  eve,  where  the  great  gold- 
bug  drops  through  the  dark, 
Where  the  brook  puts  out  of  the  roots  of  the  old  tree  and  flows  to 

the  meadow, 

Where  cattle  stand  and  shake  away  flies  with  the  tremulous  shud 
dering  of  their  hides, 

Where  the  cheese-cloth  hangs  in  the  kitchen,  where  andirons 
straddle  the  hearth-slab,  where  cobwebs  fall  in  festoons 
from  the  rafters ; 

Where  trip-hammers  crash,  where  the  press  is  whirling  its  cylinders, 
Wherever  the  human  heart  beats  with  terrible  throes  under  its 

ribs, 

Where  the  pear-shaped  balloon  is  floating  aloft,  (floating  in  it  my 
self  and  looking  composedly  down,) 
Where  the  life-car  is  drawn  on  the  slip-noose,  where  the  heat 

hatches  pale-green  eggs  in  the  dented  sand, 
Where  the  she-whale  swims  with  her  calf  and  never  forsakes  it, 
Where  the  steam-ship  trails  hind-ways  its  long  pennant  of  smoke, 
Where  the  fin  of  the  shark  cuts  like  a  black  chip  out  of  the  water, 
Where  the  half-burn'd  brig  is  riding  on  unknown  currents, 
Where  shells  grow  to  her  slimy  deck,  where  the  dead  are  corrupt 
ing  below ; 

Where  the  dense-starr'd  flag  is  borne  at  the  head  of  the  regiments, 
Approaching  Manhattan  up  by  the  long-stretching  island, 
Under  Niagara,  the  cataract  falling  like  a  veil  over  my  countenance, 
Upon  a  door-step,  upon  the  horse-block  of  hard  wood  outside, 
Upon  the  race-course,  or  enjoying  picnics  or  jigs  or  a  good  game 
of  base -bail, 


OF  MYSELF.  57 

A.t  he-festivals,  with  blackguard  gibes,  ironical  license,  bull-dances, 

drinking,  laughter, 
At  the  cider-mill  tasting  the  sweets  of  the  brown  mash,  sucking 

the  juice  through  a  straw, 

At  apple-peelings  wanting  kisses  for  all  the  red  fruit  I  find, 
At  musters,  beach-parties,  friendly  bees,  huskings,  house-raisings ; 
Where  the  mocking-bird   sounds   his  delicious   gurgles,  cackles, 

screams,  weeps, 
Where  the  hay-rick  stands  in  the  barn-yard,  where  the  dry-stalks 

are  scatter'd,  where  the  brood-cow  waits  in  the  hovel, 
Where  the  bull  advances  to  do  his  masculine  work,  where  the  stud 

to  the  mare,  where  the  r  Y±  is  treading  the  hen, 
Where  the  heifers  browse,  where  geese  nip  their  food  with  short 

jerks, 
Where  sun-down  shadows  lengthen  over  the  limitless  and  lonesome 

prairie, 
Where  herds  of  buffalo  make  a  crawling  spread  of  the  square 

miles  far  and  near, 

Where  the  humming-bird  shimmers,  where  the  neck  of  the  long- 
lived  swan  is  curving  and  winding, 
Where  the  laughing-gull  scoots  by  the  shore,  where  she  laughs  her 

near-human  laugh, 
Where  bee-hives  range  on  a  gray  bench  in  the  garden  half  hid  by 

the  high  weeds, 
Where  band-neck'd  partridges  roost  in  a  ring  on  the  ground  with 

their  heads  out, 

Where  burial  coaches  enter  the  arch'd  gates  of  a  cemetery, 
Where  winter  wolves  bark  amid  wastes  of  snow  and  icicled  trees, 
Where  the  yellow-crown'd  heron  comes  to  the  edge  of  the  marsh 

at  night  and  feeds  upon  small  crabs, 

Where  the  splash  of  swimmers  and  divers  cools  the  warm  noon, 
Where  the  katy-did  works  her  chromatic  reed  on  the  walnut-tree 

over  the  well, 

Through  patches  of  citrons  and  cucumbers  with  silver-wired  leaves, 
Through  the  salt-lick  or  orange  glade,  or  under  conical  firs, 
Through  the  gymnasium,  through  the  curtain'd  saloon,  through  the 

office  or  public  hall ; 
Pleas'd  with  the  native  and  pleas'd  with  the  foreign,  pleas'd  with 

the  new  and  old, 

Pleas'd  with  the  homely  woman  as  well  as  the  handsome, 
Pleas'd  with  the  quakeress  as  she  puts  off  her  bonnet  and  talks 

melodiously, 

Pleas'd  with  the  tune  of  the  choir  of  the  whitewash'd  church, 
Pleas'd  with  the  earnest  words  of  the  sweating  Methodist  preach 
er,  impress'd  seriously  at  the  camp-meeting ; 


5 8  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Looking  in  at  the  shop-windows  of  Broadway  the  whole  forenoon, 

flatting  the  flesh  of  my  nose  on  the  thick  plate  glass, 
Wandering  the  same  afternoon  with  my  face  turn'd  up  to  the 

clouds,  or  down  a  lane  or  along  the  beach, 
My  right  and  left  arms  round  the  sides  of  two  friends,  and  I  in  the 

middle ; 
Coming  home  with  the  silent  and  dark-cheek'd  bush-boy,  (behind 

me  he  rides  at  the  drape  of  the  day,) 
Far  from  the  settlements  studying  the  print  of  animals'  feet,  or 

the  moccasin  print, 

By  the  cot  in  the  hospital  reaching  lemonade  to  a  feverish  patient, 
Nigh  the  cofrm'd  corpse  when  all  is  still,  examining  with  a  candle ; 
Voyaging  to  every  port  to  dicker  and  adventure, 
Hurrying  with  the  modern  crowd  as  eager  and  fickle  as  any, 
Hot  toward  one  I  hate,  ready  in  my  madness  to  knife  him, 
Solitary  at  midnight  in  my  back  yard,  my  thoughts  gone  from  me 

a  long  while, 
Walking  the  old  hills  of  Judaea  with  the  beautiful  gentle  God  by 

my  side, 

Speeding  through  space,  speeding  through  heaven  and  the  stars, 
Speeding  amid  the  seven  satellites  and  the  broad  ring,  and  the 

diameter  of  eighty  thousand  miles, 

Speeding  with  tail'd  meteors,  throwing  fire-balls  like  the  rest, 
(  Carrying   the   crescent  child  that  carries  its  own  full  mother  in 

its  belly, 

Storming,  enjoying,  planning,  loving,  cautioning, 
Backing  and  filling,  appearing  and  disappearing, 
I  tread  day  and  night  such  roads. 

I  visit  the  orchards  of  spheres  and  look  at  the  product, 

And  look  at  quintillions  ripen'd  and  look  at  quintillions  green. 

I  fly  those  flights  of  a  fluid  and  swallowing  soul, 
My  course  runs  below  the  soundings  of  plummeti. 

I  help  myself  to  material  and  immaterial, 
No  guard  can  shut  me  off,  no  law  prevent  me. 

I  anchor  my  ship  for  a  little  while  only, 

My  messengers  continually  cruise  away  or  bring  their  returns  to  me, 

I  go  hunting  polar  furs  and  the  seal,  leaping  chasms  with  a  pike 
pointed  staff,  clinging  to  topples  of  brittle  and  blue. 

I  ascend  to  the  foretruck, 


SONG  OF  MYSELF.  59 


f  take  my  place  late  at  night  in  the  crow's-nest, 
We  sail  the  arctic  sea,  it  is  plenty  light  enough, 
Through  the  clear  atmosphere  I  stretch  around  on  the  wonderful 

beauty, 
The  enormous  masses  of  ice  pass  me  and  I  pass  them,  the  scenery 

is  plain  in  all  directions, 
The  white-topt  mountains  show  in  the  distance,  I  fling  out  my 

fancies  toward  them, 
We  are  approaching  some  great  battle-field  in  which  we  are  soon 

to  be  engaged, 
We  pass  the  colossal  outposts  of  the  encampment,  we  pass  with 

still  feet  and  caution, 

Or  we  are  entering  by  the  suburbs  some  vast  and  ruin'd  city, 
The  blocks  and  fallen  architecture  more  than  all  the  living  cities 

of  the  globe. 

I  am  a  free  companion,  I  bivouac  by  invading  watchfires, 

I  turn  the  bridegroom  out  of  bed  and  stay  with  the  bride  myself, 

I  tighten  her  all  night  to  my  thighs  and  lips. 

My  voice  is  the  wife's  voice,  the  screech  by  the  rail  of  the  stairs, 
They  fetch  my  man's  body  up  dripping  and  drown'd. 

I  understand  the  large  hearts  of  heroes, 

The  courage  of  present  times  and  all  times, 

How  the  skipper  saw  the  crowded  and  rudderless  wreck  of  the 
steam-ship,  and  Death  chasing  it  up  and  down  the  storm, 

How  he  knuckled  tight  and  gave  not  back  an  inch,  and  was  faith 
ful  of  days  and  faithful  of  nights, 

And  chalk'd  in  large  letters  on  a  board,  Be  of  good  cheer,  we  will 
not  desert  you  ; 

How  he  follow'd  with  them  and  tack'd  with  them  three  days  and 
would  not  give  it  up, 

How  he  saved  the  drifting  company  at  last, 

How  the  lank  loose-gown'd  women  look'd  when  boated  from  the 
side  of  their  prepared  graves, 

How  the  silent  old-faced  infants  and  the  lifted  sick,  and  the  sharp- 
lipp'd  unshaved  men ; 

All  this  I  swallow,  it  tastes  good,  I  like  it  well,  it  becomes  mine, 

I  am  die  man,  I  surler'd,  I  was  there. 

The  disdain  and  calmness  of  martyrs, 

The  mother  of  old,  condemn'd  for  a  witch,  burnt,  with 

her  children  gazing  on, 
The  hounded  slave  that  flass  in  the  race,  leans  by  the  fence,  blow. 

ing,  cover'd  wiUi  *wc«tt. 
5 


60  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


The  twinges  that  sting  like  needles  his  legs  and  neck,  the  mur 
derous  buckshot  and  the  bullets, 
All  these  I  feel  or  am. 

I  am  the  hounded  slave,  I  wince  at  the  bite  of  the  dogs, 

Hell  and  despair  are  upop  me,  crack  and  again  crack  the  marks 
men, 

I  clutch  the  rails  of  the  fence,  my  gore  dribs,  thinn'd  with  the 
ooze  of  my  skin, 

I  fall  on  the  weeds  and  stones, 

The  riders  spur  their  unwilling  horses,  haul  close, 

Taunt  my  dizzy  ears  and  beat  me  violently  over  the  head  with 
whip-stocks. 

Agonies  are  one  of  my  changes  of  garments, 

I  do  not  ask  the  wounded  person  how  he  feels,  I  myself  become 

the  wounded  percon, 
My  hurts  turn  livid  upon  me  as  I  lean  on  a  cane  and  observe. 

I  am  the  mash'd  fireman  with  breast-bone  broken, 
Tumbling  walls  buried  me  in  their  debris, 

Heat  and  smoke  I  inspired,  I  heard  the  yelling  shouts  of  my  com 
rades, 

I  heard  the  distant  click  of  their  picks  and  shovels, 
They  have  clear'd  the  beams  away,  they  tenderly  lift  me  forth. 

I  lie  in  the  night  air  in  my  red  shirt,  the  pervading  hush  is  for  my 

sake, 

Painless  after  all  I  lie  exhausted  but  not  so  unhappy, 
White  and  beautiful  are  the  faces  around  me,  the  heads  are  bared 

of  their  fire-caps, 
The  kneeling  crowd  fades  with  the  light  of  the  torches. 

Distant  and  dead  resuscitate, 

They  show  as  the  dial  or  move  as  the  hands  of  me,  I  am  the  clock 
myself. 

I  am  an  old  artillerist,  I  tell  of  my  fort's  bombardment, 
I  am  there  again. 

Again  the  long  roll  of  the  drummers, 
Again  the  attacking  cannon,  mortars, 
Again  to  my  listening  ears  the  cannon  responsive. 

I  take  part,  I  see  and  hear  the  whole, 


SONG  OF  MYSELF.  6 1 

The  cries,  curses,  roar,  the  plaudits  for  well-aim'd  shots, 
The  ambulanza  slowly  passing  trailing  its  red  drip, 
Workmen  searching  after  damages,  making  indispensable  repairs, 
The  fall  of  grenades  through  the  rent  roof,  the  fan-shaped  explo 
sion, 
The  whizz  of  limbs,  heads,  stone,  wood,  iron,  high  in  the  air. 

Again  gurgles  the  mouth  of  my  dying  general,  he  furiously  waves 
with  his  hand, 

He  gasps  through  the  clot  Mind  not  me  —  mind — the  entrench 
ments. 

34 

Now  I  tell  what  I  knew  in  Texas  in  my  early  youth, 
(I  tell  not  the  fall  of  Alamo, 
Not  one  escaped  to  tell  the  fall  of  Alamo, 
The  hundred  and  fifty  are  dumb  yet  at  Alamo,) 
Tis  the  tale  of  the  murder  in  cold  blood  of  four  hundred  and 
twelve  young  men. 

Retreating  they  had  form'd  in  a  hollow  square  with  their  baggage 

for  breastworks, 
Nine  hundred  lives  out  of  the  surrounding  enemies,  nine  times 

their  number,  was  the  price  they  took  in  advance, 
Their  colonel  was  wounded  and  their  ammunition  gone, 
They  treated  for  an  honorable  capitulation,  receiv'd  writing  and 

seal,  gave  up  their  arms  and  march'd  back  prisoners  of  war. 

They  were  the  glory  of  the  race  of  rangers, 

Matchless  with  horse,  rifle,  song,  supper,  courtship, 

Large,  turbulent,  generous,  handsome,  proud,  and  affectionate, 

Bearded,  sunburnt,  drest  in  the  free  costume  of  hunters, 

Not  a  single  one  over  thirty  years  of  age. 

The  second  First-day  morning  they  were  brought  out  in  squads 

and  massacred,  it  was  beautiful  early  summer, 
The  work  commenced  about  five  o'clock  and  was  over  by  eight. 

None  obey'd  the  command  to  kneel, 

Some   made   a   mad   and   helpless  rush,  some   stood   stark  and 

straight, 
A  few  fell  at  once,  shot  in  the  temple  or  heart,  the  living  and  dead 

lay  together, 
The  maim'd  and  mangled  dug  in  the  dirt,  the  new-comers  saw 

them  there, 


62  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


Some  half-kill'd  attempted  to  crawl  away, 

These  were  despatch'd  with  bayonets  or  batter'd  with  the  blunts 

of  muskets, 
A  youth  not  seventeen  years  old  seiz'd  his  assassin  till  two  more 

came  to  release  him, 
The  three  were  all  torn  and  cover'd  with  the  boy's  blood. 

At  eleven  o'clock  began  the  burning  of  the  bodies ; 
That  is  the  tale  of  the  murder  of  the  four  hundred  and  twelve 
young  men. 

35 

Would  you  hear  of  an  old-time  sea-fight  ? 

Would  you  learn  who  won  by  the  light  of  the  moon  and  stars  ? 

List  to  the  yarn,  as  my  grandmother's  father  the  sailor  told  it  to  me. 

Our  foe  was  no  skulk  in  his  ship  I  tell  you,  (said  he,) 

His  was  the  surly  English  pluck,  and  there  is  no  tougher  or  truer, 

and  never  was,  and  never  will  be  ; 
Along  the  lower'd  eve  he  came  horribly  raking  us. 

We  closed  with  him,  the  yards  entangled,  the  cannon  touch'd, 
My  captain  lash'd  fast  with  his  own  hands. 

We  had  receiv'd  some  eighteen  pound  shots  under  the  water, 
On  our  lower-gun-deck  two  large  pieces  had  burst  at  the  first  fire, 
killing  all  around  and  blowing  up  overhead. 

Fighting  at  sun-down,  fighting  at  dark, 

Ten  o'clock  at  night,  the  full  moon  well  up,  our  leaks  on  the  gain, 

and  five  feet  of  water  reported, 
The  master-at-arms  loosing  the  prisoners  confined  in  the  after-hold 

to  give  them  a  chance  for  themselves. 

The  transit  to  and  from  the  magazine  is  now  stopt  by  the  sentinels, 
They  see  so  many  strange  faces  they  do  not  know  whom  to  trust. 

Our  frigate  takes  fire, 

The  other  asks  if  we  demand  quarter? 

If  our  colors  are  struck  and  the  fighting  done  ? 

Now  I  laugh  content,  for  I  hear  the  voice  of  my  little  captain, 
We  have  not  struck,  he  composedly  cries,  we  have  just  begun  ouf 
part  of  the  fighting* 


OF  MYSELF.  63 

Only  three  guns  are  in  use, 

One  is  directed  by  the  captain  himself  against  the  enemy's  main 
mast, 

Two  well  serv'd  with  grape  and  canister  silence  his  musketry  and 
clear  his  decks. 

The  tops  alone  second  the  fire  of  this  little  battery,  especially  the 

main-top, 
They  hold  out  bravely  during  the  whole  of  the  action. 

Not  a  moment's  cease, 

The  leaks  gain  fast  on  the  pumps,  the  fire  eats  toward  the  powder- 
magazine. 

One  of  the  pumps  has  been  shot  away,  it  is  generally  thought  we 
are  sinking. 

Serene  stands  the  little  captain, 

He  is  not  hurried,  his  voice  is  neither  high  nor  low, 

His  eyes  give  more  light  to  us  than  our  battle-lanterns. 

Toward  twelve  there  in  the  beams  of  the  moon  they  surrender  to 
us. 

36 

Stretch'd  and  still  lies  the  midnight, 

Two  great  hulls  motionless  on  the  breast  of  the  darkness, 

Our  vessel  riddled  and  slowly  sinking,  preparations  to  pass  to  the 

one  we  have  conquer'd, 
The  captain  on  the  quarter-deck  coldly  giving  his  orders  through 

a  countenance  white  as  a  sheet, 

Near  by  the  corpse  of  the  child  that  serv'd  in  the  cabin, 
The  dead  face  of  an  old  salt  with  long  white  hair  and  carefully 

curl'd  whiskers, 

The  flames  spite  of  all  that  can  be  done  flickering  aloft  and  below, 
The  husky  voices  of  the  two  or  three  officers  yet  fit  for  duty, 
Formless  stacks  of  bodies  and  bodies  by  themselves,  dabs  of  flesh 

upon  the  masts  and  spars, 
Cut  of  cordage,  dangle  of  rigging,  slight  shock  of  the  soothe  of 

waves, 

Black  and  impassive  guns,  litter  of  powder-parcels,  strong  scent, 
A  few  large  stars  overhead,  silent  and  mournful  shining, 
Delicate  sniffs  of  sea-breeze,  smells  of  sedgy  grass  and  fields  by  the 

shore,  death-messages  given  in  charge  to  survivors, 
The  hiss  of  the  surgeon's  knife,  the  gnawing  teeth  of  his  saw, 


64  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Wheeze,  cluck,  swash  of  falling  blood,  short  wild  scream,  and  long, 

dull,  tapering  groan, 
These  so,  these  irretrievable. 

37 

You  laggards  there  on  guard  !  look  to  your  arms  ! 

In  at  the  conquer'd  doors  they  crowd  !  I  am  possess'd  ! 

Embody  all  presences  outlaw'd  or  suffering, 

See  myself  in  prison  shaped  like  another  man, 

And  feel  the  dull  unintermitted  pain. 

For  me  the  keepers  of  convicts  shoulder  their  carbines  and  keep 

watch, 
It  is  I  let  out  in  the  morning  and  barr'd  at  night. 

Not  a  mutineer  walks  handcuff 'd  to  jail  but  I  am  handcuff'd  to 

him  and  walk  by  his  side, 
(I  am  less  the  jolly  one  there,  and  more  the  silent  one  with  sweat 

on  my  twitching  lips.) 

Not  a  youngster  is  taken  for  larceny  but  I  go  up  too,  and  am  tried 
and  sentenced. 

Not  a  cholera  patient  lies  at  the  last  gasp  but  I  also  lie  at  the  last 

gasp, 
My  face  is  ash-color'd,  my  sinews  gnarl,  away  from  me  people 

retreat. 

Askers  embody  themselves  in  me  and  I  am  embodied  in  them, 
I  project  my  hat,  sit  shame-faced,  and  beg. 

38 

Enough  !  enough  !  enough  ! 

Somehow  I  have  been  stunn'd.     Stand  back  ! 

Give  me  a  little  time  beyond  my  cuff'd  head,  slumbers,  dreams, 

gaping, 
I  discover  myself  on  the  verge  of  a  usual  mistake. 

i 

That  I  could  forget  the  mockers  and  insults  ! 

That  I  could  forget  the  trickling  tears  and  the  blows  of  the  bludg 
eons  and  hammers  ! 

That  I  could  look  with  a  separate  look  on  my  own  crucifixion  and 
bloody  crowning. 


SONG  OF  MYSELF.  65 

I  remember  now, 

I  resume  the  overstaid  fraction, 

The  grave  of  rock  multiplies  what  has  been  confided  to  it,  or  to 

any  graves, 
Corpses  rise,  gashes  heal,  fastenings  roll  from  me. 

I  troop  forth  replenished  with  supreme  power,  one  of  an  average 

unending  procession, 

Inland  and  sea-coast  we  go,  and  pass  all  boundary  lines, 
Our  swift  ordinances  on  their  way  over  the  whole  earth, 
The  blossoms  we  wear  in  our  hats  the  growth  of  thousands  of 

years. 

Eleves,  I  salute  you  !  come  forward  ! 

Continue  your  annotations,  continue  your  questionings. 

39 

The  friendly  and  flowing  savage,  who  is  he  ? 

Is  he  waiting  for  civilization,  or  past  it  and  mastering  it  ? 

Is  he  some  Southwesterner  rais'd  out-doors?  is  he  Kanadian? 
Is  he  from  the  Mississippi  country?  Iowa,  Oregon,  California? 
The  mountains  ?  prairie-life,  bush-life  ?  or  sailor  from  the  sea  ? 

Wherever  he  goes  men  and  women  accept  and  desire  him, 
They  desire  he  should  like  them,  touch  them,  speak  to  them,  stay 
with  them. 

Behavior  lawless  as  snow-flakes,  words  simple  as  grass,  uncomb'd 
head,  laughter,  and  naivete, 

Slow-stepping  feet,  common  features,  common  modes  and  ema 
nations, 

They  descend  in  new  forms  from  the  tips  of  his  fingers, 

They  are  wafted  with  the  odor  of  his  body  or  breath,  they  fly  out 
of  the  glance  of  his  eyes. 

40 

Flaunt  of  the  sunshine  I  need  not  your  bask  —  lie  over  ! 
Vou  light  surfaces  only,  I  force  surfaces  and  depths  also. 

Earth  !  you  seem  to  look  for  something  at  my  hands, 
Say,  old  top-knot,  what  do  you  want  ? 

Man  or  woman,  I  might  tell  how  I  like  you,  but  cannot, 


66  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


And  might  tell  what  it  is  in  me  and  whr.t  it  is  in  you,  but  cannot, 
And  might  tell  that  pining  I  have,  that  pulse  of  my  nights  and 
days. 

Behold,  I  do  not  give  lectures  or  a  little  charity, 
When  I  give  I  give  myself. 

You  there,  impotent,  loose  in  the  knees, 

Open  your  scarf  d  chops  till  I  blow  grit  within  you, 

Spread  your  palms  and  lift  the  flaps  of  your  pockets, 

I  am  not  to  be  denied,  I  compel,  I  have  stores  plenty  and  to  spare, 

And  any  thing  I  have  I  bestow. 

I  do  not  ask  who  you  are,  that  is  not  important  to  me, 

You  can  do  nothing  and  be  nothing  but  what  I  will  infold  you. 

To  cotton-field  drudge  or  cleaner  of  privies  I  lean, 
On  his  right  cheek  I  put  the  family  kiss, 
And  in  my  soul  I  swear  I  never  will  deny  him. 

On  women  fit  for  conception  I  start  bigger  and  nimbler  babes, 
(This  day  I  am  jetting  the  stuff  of  far  more  arrogant  republics.) 

To  any  one  dying,  thither  I  speed  and  twist  the  knob  of  the  door, 
Turn  the  bed-clothes  toward  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
Let  the  physician  and  the  priest  go  home. 

I  seize  the  descending  man  and  raise  him  with  resistless  will, 

0  despairer,  here  is  my  neck, 

By  God,  you  shall  not  go  down  !  hang  your  whole  weight  upon  me 

1  dilate  you  with  tremendous  breath,  I  buoy  you  up, 
Every  room  of  the  house  do  I  fill  with  an  arm'd  force, 
Lovers  of  me,  bafflers  of  graves. 

Sleep  —  I  and  they  keep  guard  all  night, 

Not  doubt,  not  decease  shall  dare  to  lay  finger  upon  you, 

I  have  embraced  you,  and  henceforth  possess  you  to  myself, 

And  when  you  rise  in  the  morning  you  will  find  what  I  tell  you  is  so, 

41 

I  am  he  bringing  help  for  the  sick  as  they  pant  on  their  backs, 
And  for  strong  upright  men  I  bnng  yet  more  needed  help. 


SONG  OP  MYSELF.  07 

I  heard  what  was  said  of  the  universe, 

Heard  it  and  heard  it  of  several  thousand  years ; 

It  is  middling  well  as  far  as  it  goes  —  but  is  that  all  ? 

Magnifying  and  applying  come  I, 

Outbidding  at  the  start  the  old  cautious  hucksters, 

Taking  myself  the  exact  dimensions  of  Jehovah, 

Lithographing  Kronos,  Zeus  his  son,  and  Hercules  his  grandson, 

Buying  drafts  of  Osiris,  Isis,  Belus,  Brahma,  Buddha, 

In  my  portfolio  placing  Manito  loose,  Allah  on  a  leaf,  the  crucifix 

engraved, 

With  Odin  and  the  hideous-faced  Mexitli  and  every  idol  and  image, 
Taking  them  all  for  what  they  are  worth  and  not  a  cent  more, 
Admitting  they  were  alive  and  did  the  work  of  their  days, 
(They  bore  mites  as  for  unfledg'd  birds  who  have  now  to  rise  and 

fly  and  sing  for  themselves,) 
Accepting  the  rough  deific  sketches  to  fill  out  better  in  myself, 

bestowing  them  freely  on  each  man  and  woman  I  see, 
Discovering  as  much  or  more  in  a  framer  framing  a  house, 
Putting  higher  claims  for  him  there  with  his  roll'd-up  sleeves  driving 

the  mallet  and  chisel, 
Not  objecting  to  special  revelations,  considering  a  curl  of  smoke 

or  a  hair  on  the  back  of  my  hand  just  as  curious  as  any 

revelation, 
Lads  ahold  of  fire-engines  and  hook-and-ladder  ropes  no  less  to 

me  than  the  gods  of  the  antique  wars, 
Minding  their  voices  peal  through  the  crash  of  destruction, 
Their  brawny  limbs  passing  safe  over  charr'd  laths,  their  white 

foreheads  whole  and  unhurt  out  of  the  flames ; 
By  the  mechanic's  wife  with  her  babe  at  her  nipple  interceding  for 

every  person  born, 
Three  scythes  at  harvest  whizzing  in  a  row  from  three  lusty  angels 

with  shirts  bagg'd  out  at  their  waists, 
The  snag-tooth'd  hostler  with  red  hair  redeeming  sins  past  and  to 

come, 
Selling  all  he  possesses,  traveling  on  foot  to  fee  lawyers  for  his 

brother  and  sit  by  him  while  he  is  tried  for  forgery ; 
What  was  strewn  in  the  amplest  strewing  the  square  rod  about 

me,  and  not  filling  the  square  rod  then, 
The  bull  and  the  bug  never  worshipp'd  half  enough, 
Dung  and  dirt  more  admirable  than  was  dream'd, 
The  supernatural  of  no  account,  myself  waiting  my  time  to  be  one 

of  the  supremes, 
The  day  getting  ready  for  me  when  I  shall  do  as  much  good  as 

the  best,  and  be  as  prodigious  j 


68  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


By  my  life-lumps  !  becoming  already  a  creator, 

Putting  myself  here  and  now  to  the  ambush'd  womb  of  the  shadows 

42 

A  call  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd, 

My  own  voice,  orotund  sweeping  and  final. 

Come  my  children, 

Come  my  boys  and  girls,  my  women,  household  and  intimates, 
Now  the  performer  launches  his  nerve,  he  has  pass'd  his  prelude 
on  the  reeds  within. 

Easily  written  loose-finger'd  chords  —  I  feel  the  thrum  of  your 
climax  and  close. 

My  head  slues  round  on  my  neck, 

Music  rolls,  but  not  from  the  organ, 

Folks  are  around  me,  but  they  are  no  household  of  mine. 

Ever  the  hard  unsunk  ground, 

Ever  the  eaters  and  drinkers,  ever  the  upward  and  downward  sun, 

ever  the  air  and  the  ceaseless  tides, 
Ever  myself  and  my  neighbors,  refreshing,  wicked,  real, 
Ever  the  old  inexplicable  query,  ever  that  thorn'd  thumb,  that 

breath  of  itches  and  thirsts, 
Ever  the  vexer's  hoot!  hoot !  till  we  find  where  the  sly  one  hides 

and  bring  him  forth, 

Ever  love,  ever  the  sobbing  liquid  of  life, 
Ever  the  bandage  under  the  chin,  ever  the  trestles  of  death. 

Here  and  there  with  dimes  on  the  eyes  walking, 
To  feed  the  greed  of  the  belly  the  brains  liberally  spooning, 
Tickets  buying,  taking,  selling,  but  in  to  the  feast  never  once  going, 
Many  sweating,  ploughing,  thrashing,  and  then  the  chaff  for  pay 
ment  receiving, 
A  few  idly  owning,  and  they  the  wheat  continually  claiming. 

This  is  the  city  and  I  am  one  of  the  citizens, 

Whatever  interests  the  rest  interests  me,  politics,  wars,  markets. 

newspapers,  schools, 
The  mayor  and  councils,  banks,  tariffs,  steamships,  factories,  stocks, 

stores,  real  estate  and  personal  estate. 

The  little  plentiful  manikins  skipping  around  in  collars  and  tail'd 
coats, 


SONG  OF  MYSELF.  69 


I  am  aware  who  they  are,  (they  are  positively  not  worms  or  fleas,) 
I  acknowledge  the  duplicates  of  myself,  the  weakest  and  shallowest 

is  deathless  with  me, 

What  I  do  and  say  the  same  waits  for  them, 
Every  thought  that  flounders  in  me  the  same  flounders  in  them. 

I  know  perfectly  well  my  own  egotism, 

Know  my  omnivorous  lines  and  must  not  write  any  less, 

And  would  fetch  you  whoever  you  are  flush  with  myself. 

Not  words  of  routine  this  song  of  mine, 

But  abruptly  to  question,  to  leap  beyond  yet  nearer  bring ; 

This  printed  and  bound  book  —  but  the  printer  and  the  printing- 
office  boy? 

The  well-taken  photographs  —  but  your  wife  or  friend  close  and 
solid  in  your  arms  ? 

The  black  ship  mail'd  with  iron,  her  mighty  guns  in  her  turrets  — 
but  the  pluck  of  the  captain  and  engineers? 

In  the  houses  the  dishes  and  fare  and  furniture  —  but  the  'jost  and 
hostess,  and  the  look  out  of  their  eyes? 

The  sky  up  there  —  yet  here  or  next  door,  or  across  the  way '/ 

The  saints  and  sages  in  history  —  but  you  yourself  ? 

Sermons,  creeds,  theology  —  out  the  fathomless  human  brain, 

And  what  is  reason  ?  and  what  is  love  ?  and  what  is  life  ? 

43 

I  do  not  despise  you  priests,  all  time,  the  world  over, 
My  faith  is  the  greatest  of  faiths  and  the  least  of  faiths, 
Enclosing  worship  ancient  and  modern  and  all  between  ancient 

and  modern, 
Believing  I  shall  come  again  upon  the  earth  after  five  thousand 

years, 
Waiting  responses  from  oracles,  honoring  the  gods,  saluting  the 

sun, 
Making  a  fetich  of  the  first  rock  or  stump,  powowing  with  sticks  in 

the  circle  of  obis, 

Helping  the  llama  or  brahmin  as  he  trims  the  lamps  of  the  idols, 
Dancing  yet  through  the  streets  in  a  phallic  procession,  rapt  and 

austere  in  the  woods  a  gymnosophist, 
Drinking  mead  from  the  skull-cup,  to  Shastas  and  Vedas  admirant, 

minding  the  Koran, 
Walking  the  teokallis,  spotted  with  gore  from  the  stone  and  knife, 

beating  the  serpent-skin  drum, 
Accepting  the  Gospels,  accepting  him  that  was  crucified,  knowing 

assuredly  that  he  is  divine, 


r/C  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

To   the   mass   kneeling   or  the  puritan's  prayer  rising,  or  sitting 

patiently  in  a  pew, 
Ranting  and  frothing  in  my  insane  crisis,  or  waiting  dead-like  till 

my  spirit  arouses  me, 
Looking  forth  on  pavement  and  land,  or  outside  of  pavement  and 

land, 
Belonging  to  the  winders  of  the  circuit  of  circuits. 

One  of  that  centripetal  and  centrifugal  gang  I  turn  and  talk  like  a 
man  leaving  charges  before  a  journey. 

Down-hearted  doubters  dull  and  excluded, 

Frivolous,  sullen,  moping,  angry,  affected,  disheartened,  atheistical, 
I   know  every  one   of  you,  I  know  the  sea  of  torment,  doubt, 
despair  and  unbelief. 

Plow  the  flukes  splash  ! 

How  they  contort  rapid  as  lightning,  with  spasms  and  spouts  of 
blood  ! 

Be  at  peace  bloody  flukes  of  doubters  and  sullen  mopers, 
I  take  my  place  among  you  as  much  as  among  any, 
The  past  is  the  push  of  you,  me,  all,  precisely  the  same, 
And  what  is  yet  untried  and  afterward  is  for  you,  me,  all,  precisely 
the  same. 

I  do  not  know  what  is  untried  and  afterward, 

But  I  know  it  will  in  its  turn  prove  sufficient,  and  cannot  fail. 

Each  who  passes  is  consider'd,  each  who  stops  is  consider'd,  not 
a  single  one  can  it  fail. 

It  cannot  fail  the  young  man  who  died  and  was  buried, 

Nor  the  young  woman  who  died  and  was  put  by  his  side, 

Nor  the  little  child  that  peep'd  in  at  the  door,  and  then  drew  back 

and  was  never  seen  again, 
Nor  the  old  man  who  has  lived  without  purpose,  and  feels  it  with 

bitterness  worse  than  gall, 

Nor  him  in  the  poor  house  tubercled  by  rum  and  the  bad  dis 
order, 
Nor  the  numberless  slaughter'd  and  wreck'd,  nor  the  brutish  koboo 

call'd  the  ordure  of  humanity, 

Nor  the  sacs  merely  floating  with  open  mouths  for  food  to  slip  in, 
Nor  any  thing  in  the  earth,  or  down  in  the  oldest  graves  of  the 
earth, 


OF  MYSELF.  71 


Nor  any  thing   in   the  myriads  of  spheres,  nor  the  myriads  of 

myriads  that  inhabit  them, 
Nor  the  present,  nor  the  least  wisp  that  is  known. 

44 
It  is  time  to  explain  myself —  let  us  stand  up. 

What  is  known  I  strip  away, 

I  launch  all  men  and  women  forward  with  me  into  the  Unknown. 

The  clock  indicates  the  moment  —  but  what  does  eternity  indicate  ? 

We  have  thus  far  exhausted  trillions  of  winters  and  summers, 
There  are  trillions  ahead,  and  trillions  ahead  of  them. 

Births  have  brought  us  richness  and  variety, 

And  other  births  will  bring  us  richness  and  variety. 

I  do  not  call  one  greater  and  one  smaller, 

That  which  fills  its  period  and  place  is  equal  to  any. 

Were  mankind  murderous  or  jealous  upon  you,  my  brother,  my 

sister  ? 

I  am  sorry  for  you,  they  are  not  murderous  or  jealous  upon  me, 
All  has  been  gentle  with  me,  I  keep  no  account  with  lamentation, 
(What  have  I  to  do  with  lamentation  ?) 

\  I  am  an  acme  of  things  accomplish'd,  and  I  an  encloser  of  things 
to  be. 

My  feet  strike  an  apex  of  the  apices  of  the  stairs, 

On  every  step  bunches  of  ages,  and  larger  bunches  between  the 

steps, 
All  below  duly  travel'd,  and  still  I  mount  and  mount. 

Rise  after  rise  bow  the  phantoms  behind  me, 
Afar  down  I  see  the  huge  first  Nothing,  I  know  I  was  even  there, 
I  waited  unseen  and  always,  and  slept  through  the  lethargic  mist, 
And  took  my  time,  and  took  no  hurt  from  the  fetid  carbon. 

Long  I  was  hugg'd  close  —  long  and  long. 

\  Immense  have  been  the  preparations  for  me, 

[    Faithful  and  friendly  the  arms  that  have  help'd  me. 


72  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Cycles  ferried  my  cradle,  rowing  and  rowing  like  cheerful  boatmen, 
For  room  to  me  stars  kept  aside  in  their  own  rings, 
They  sent  influences  to  look  after  what  was  to  hold  me. 

Before  I  was  born  out  of  my  mother  generations  guided  me, 
My  embryo  has  never  been  torpid,  nothing  could  overlay  it. 

For  it  the  nebula  cohered  to  an  orb, 
The  long  slow  strata  piled  to  rest  it  on, 
Vast  vegetables  gave  it  sustenance, 

Monstrous  sauroids  transported  it  in  their  mouths  and  deposited 
it  with  care. 

All  forces  have  been  steadily  employ'd  to  complete  and  delight  me, 
Now  on  this  spot  I  stand  with  my  robust  soul. 

45 

O  span  of  youth  !  ever-push'd  elasticity ! 

0  manhood,  balanced,  florid  and  full. 

My  lovers  suffocate  me, 

Crowding  my  lips,  thick  in  the  pores  of  my  skin, 

Jostling  me  through  streets  and  public  halls,  coming  naked  to  me 

at  night, 
Crying  by  day  Ahoy!  from  the  rocks  of  the  river,  swinging  and 

chirping  over  my  head, 

Calling  my  name  from  flower-beds,  vines,  tangled  underbrush, 
Lighting  on  every  moment  of  my  life, 
Bussing  my  body  with  soft  balsamic  busses, 
Noiselessly  passing  handfuls  out  of  their  hearts  and  giving  them 

to  be  mine. 

Old  age   superbly  rising !  O  welcome,  ineffable   grace   of  dying 
days  ! 

Every  condition  promulges  not  only  itself,  it  promulges  what  grows 

after  and  out  of  itself, 
And  the  dark  hush  promulges  as  much  as  any. 

1  open  my  scuttle  at  night  and  see  the  far-sprinkled  systems, 
And  all  I  see  multiplied  as  high  as  I  can  cipher  edge  but  the  riro 

of  the  farther  systems. 

Wider  and  wider  they  spread,  expanding,  always  expanding, 
Outward  and  outward  and  forever  outward. 


SONG  OF  MYSELF.  73 

My  sun  has  his  sun  and  round  him  obediently  wheels, 
He  joins  with  his  partners  a  group  of  superior  circuit, 
And  greater  sets  follow,  making  specks  of  the  greatest  inside  them. 

]  There  is  no  stoppage  and  never  can  be  stoppage, 

•  If  I,  you,  and  the  worlds,  and  all  beneath  or  upon  their  surfaces, 

were  this  moment  reduced  back  to  a  pallid  float,  it  would 

not  avail  in  the  long  run, 

\  We  should  surely  bring  up  again  where  we  now  stand, 
I  And  surely  go  as  much  farther,  and  then  farther  and  farther. 

A  few  quadrillions  of  eras,  a  few  octillions  of  cubic  leagues,  do  not 

hazard  the  span  or  make  it  impatient, 
They  are  but  parts,  any  thing  is  but  a  part. 

See  ever  so  far,  there  is  limitless  space  outside  of  that, 
Count  ever  so  much,  there  is  limitless  time  around  that. 

\  My  rendezvous  is  appointed,  it  is  certain, 

I  The  Lord  will  be  there  and  wait  till  I  come  on  perfect  terms, 

\  The  great  Camerado,  the  lover  true  for  whom  I  pine  will  be  there. 

46 

I  know  I  have  the  best  of  time  and  space,  and  was  never  measured 
and  never  will  be  measured. 

I  tramp  a  perpetual  journey,  (come  listen  all !) 

My  signs  are  a  rain-proof  coat,  good  shoes,  and  a  staff  cut  from 

the  woods, 

No  friend  of  mine  takes  his  ease  in  my  chair, 
I  have  no  chair,  no  church,  no  philosophy, 
I  lead  no  man  to  a  dinner-table,  library,  exchange, 
But  each  man  and  each  woman  of  you  I  lead  upon  a  knoll, 
My  left  hand  hooking  you  round  the  waist, 
My  right  hand  pointing  to  landscapes  of  continents  and  the  public 

road. 

Not  I,  not  any  one  else  can  travel  that  road  for  you, 
You  must  travel  it  for  yourself. 

It  is  not  far,  it  is  within  reach, 

Perhaps  you  have  been  on  it  since  you  were  born  and  did  not 

know, 
Perhaps  it  is  everywhere  on  water  and  on  land. 


74  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


Shoulder  your  duds  dear  son,  and  I  will  mine,  and  let  us  hasten 

forth, 
Wonderful  cities  and  free  nations  we  shall  fetch  as  we  go. 

If  you  tire,  give  me  both  burdens,  and  rest  the  chuff  of  your  hand 

on  my  hip, 

And  in  due  time  you  shall  repay  the  same  service  to  me, 
For  after  we  start  we  never  lie  by  again. 

This  day  before  dawn  I  ascended  a  hill  and  look'd  at  the  crowded 

heaven, 
And  I  said  to  my  spirit  When  we  become,  the  enfolders  of  those 

orbs,  and  the  pleasure  and  knowledge  of  every  thing  in 

them,  shall  we  be  fiird  and  satisfied  then  ? 
And  my  spirit  said  No,  we  but  level  that  lift  to  pass  and  continue 

beyond. 

You  are  also  asking  me  questions  and  I  hear  you, 

I  answer  that  I  cannot  answer,  you  must  find  out  for  yourself. 

Sit  a  while  dear  son, 

Here  are  biscuits  to  eat  and  here  is  milk  to  drink, 

But  as  soon  as  you  sleep  and  renew  yourself  in  sweet  clothes,  I 

kiss  you  with  a  good-by  kiss  and  open  the  gate  for  your 

egress  hence. 

Long  enough  have  you  dream'd  contemptible  dreams, 
Now  I  wash  the  gum  from  your  eyes, 

You  must  habit  yourself  to  the  dazzle  of  the  light  and  of  every 
moment  of  your  life. 

Long  have  you  timidly  waded  holding  a  plank  by  the  shore, 
Now  I  will  you  to  be  a  bold  swimmer, 

To  jump  off  in  the  midst  of  the  sea,  rise  again,  nod  to  me,  shout, 
and  laughingly  dash  with  your  hair. 

47 

I  am  the  teacher  of  athletes, 
He  that  by  me  spreads  a  wider  breast  than  my  own  proves  the 

width  of  my  own, 
He    most    honors  my  style  who  learns  under  it  to  destroy  the 

teacher. 

I  The  boy  I  love,  the  same  becomes  a  man  not  through  derived 
power,  but  in  his  own  right, 


SONG  OF  MYSELF.  75 

Wicked  rather  than  virtuous  out  of  conformity  or  fear, 

Fond  of  his  sweetheart,  relishing  well  his  steak, 

Unrequited  love  or  a  slight  cutting  him  worse  than  sharp  steel 

cuts, 
First-rate  to  ride,  to  fight,  to  hit  the  bull's  eye,  to  sail  a  skiff,  to 

sing  a  song  or  play  on  the  banjo, 
Preferring  scars   and  the  beard  and  faces  pitted  with  small-pox 

over  all  latherers, 
And  those  well-tann'd  to  those  that  keep  out  of  the  sun. 

I  teach  straying  from  me,  yet  who  can  stray  from  me  ? 
I  follow  you  whoever  you  are  from  the  present  hour, 
My  words  itch  at  your  ears  till  you  understand  them. 

I  do  not  say  these  things  for  a  dollar  or  to  fill  up  the  time  while  I 

wait  for  a  boat, 
(It  is  you  talking  just  as  much  as  myself,  I  act  as  the  tongue  oi 

you, 
Tied  in  your  mouth,  in  mine  it  begins  to  be  loosen'd.) 

I  swear  I  will  never  again  mention  love  or  death  inside  a  house, 
And  I  swear  I  will  never  translate  myself  at  all,  only  to  him  or  her 
who  privately  stays  with  me  in  the  open  air. 

If  you  would  understand  me  go  to  the  heights  or  water-shore, 
The  nearest  gnat  is  an  explanation,  and  a  drop  or  motion  of  waves 

a  key, 
The  maul,  the  oar,  the  hand-saw,  second  my  words. 

No  shutter'd  room  or  school  can  commune  with  me, 
But  roughs  and  little  children  better  than  they. 

The  young  mechanic  is  closest  to  me,  he  knows  me  well, 

The  woodman  that  takes  his  axe  and  jug  with  him  shall  take  me 

with  him  all  day, 
The  farm-boy  ploughing  in  the  field  feels  good  at  the  sound  of  my 

voice, 
In  vessels  that  sail  my  words  sail,  I  go  with  fishermen  and  seamen 

and  love  them. 

The  soldier  camp'd  or  upon  the  march  is  mine, 

On  the  night  ere  the  pending  battle  many  seek  me,  and  I  do  not 

fail  them, 
On  that  solemn  night  (it  may  be  their  last)  those  that  know  me 

seek  me. 
6 


76  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

My  face  nibs  to  the  hunter's  face  when  he  lies  down  alone  in  his 

blanket, 

The  driver  thinking  of  me  does  not  mind  the  jolt  of  his  wagon, 
The  young  mother  and  old  mother  comprehend  me, 
The  girl  and  the  wife  rest  the  needle  a  moment  and  forget  where 

they  are, 
They  and  all  would  resume  what  I  have  told  them. 

48 

I  have  said  that  the  soul  is  not  more  than  the  body, 

And  I  have  said  that  the  body  is  not  more  than  the  soul, 

And  nothing,  not  God,  is  greater  to  one  than  one's  self  is, 

And  whoever  walks  a  furlong  without  sympathy  walks  to  his  own 

funeral  drest  in  his  shroud, 
And  I  or  you  pocketless  of  a  dime  may  purchase  the  pick  of  the 

earth, 
And  to  glance  with  an  eye  or  show  a  bean  in  its  pod  confounds 

the  learning  of  all  times, 
And  there  is  no  trade  or  employment  but  the  young  man  following 

it  may  become  a  hero, 
And  there  is  no  object  so  soft  but  it  makes  a  hub  for  the  wheel'd 

universe, 
And  I  say  to  any  man  or  woman,  Let  your  soul  stand  cool  and 

composed  before  a  million  universes. 

And  I  say  to  mankind,  Be  not  curious  about  God, 
For  I  who  am  curious  about  each  am  not  curious  about  God, 
(No  array  of  terms  can  say  how  much  I  am  at  peace  about  God 
and  about  death.) 

I  hear  and  behold  God  in  every  object,  yet  understand  God  not 

in  the  least, 
Nor  do   I  understand  who  there  can  be  more  wonderful  than 

myself. 

Why  should  I  wish  to  see  God  better  than  this  day? 

I  see  something  of  God  each  hour  of  the  twenty-four,  and  each 

moment  then, 
In  the  faces  of  men  and  women  I  see  God,  and  in  my  own  face  in 

the  glass, 
I  find  letters  from  God  dropt  in  the  street,  and  every  one  is  sign'd 

by  God's  name, 

And  I  leave  them  where  they  are,  for  I  know  that  wheresoe'er  I  go, 
Others  will  punctually  come  for  ever  and  ever. 


SONG  OF  MYSELF. 


49 

And  as  to  you  Death,  and  you  bitter  hug  of  mortality,  it  is  idle  to 
try  to  alarm  me. 

To  his  work  without  flinching  the  accoucheur  comes, 
I  see  the  elder-hand  pressing  receiving  supporting, 
I  recline  by  the  sills  of  the  exquisite  flexible  doors, 
And  mark  the  outlet,  and  mark  the  relief  and  escape. 

And  as  to  you  Corpse  I  think  you  are  good  manure,  but  that  does 

not  offend  me, 

I  smell  the  white  roses  sweet-scented  and  growing, 
I  reach  to  the  leafy  lips,  I  reach  to  the  polish'd  breasts  of  melons. 

And  as  to  you  Life  I  reckon  you  are  the  leavings  of  many  deaths, 
(No  doubt  I  Rave  died  myself  ten  thousand  times  before.) 

I  hear  you  whispering  there  O  stars  of  heaven, 

0  suns  —  O  grass  of  graves  —  O  perpetual   transfers  and   pro 

motions, 
If  you  do  not  say  any  thing  how  can  I  say  any  thing? 

Of  the  turbid  pool  that  lies  in  the  autumn  forest, 

Of  the  moon  that  descends  the  steeps  of  the  soughing  twilight, 

Toss,  sparkles  of  day  and  dusk  —  toss  on  the  black  stems  that 

decay  in  the  muck, 
Toss  to  the  moaning  gibberish  of  the  dry  limbs. 

1  ascend  from  the  moon,  I  ascend  from  the  night, 

I  perceive  that  the  ghastly  glimmer  is  noonday  sunbeams  reflected, 
And  debouch  to  the  steady  and  central  from  the  offspring  great  or 
small. 


There  is  that  in  me  —  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  —  but  I  know  it  is 
in  me. 

Wrench'd  and  sweaty  —  calm  and  cool  then  my  body  becomes, 
I  sleep  —  I  sleep  long. 

I  do  not  know  it  —  it  is  without  name  —  it  is  a  word  unsaid, 
It  is  not  in  any  dictionary,  utterance,  symbol. 

Something  it  swings  on  more  than  the  earth  I  swing  on, 
To  it  the  creation  is  the  friend  whose  embracing  awakes  me. 


LEAVES  ov  GRASS. 


Perhaps  I  might  tell  more.     Outlines  !  I  plead  for  my  brothers 
and  sisters. 

Do  you  see  O  my  brothers  and  sisters  ? 

It  is  not  chaos  or  death  —  it  is  form,  union,  plan  —  it  is  eternal 
life  —  it  is  Happiness. 

5' 

The  past  and  present  wilt  —  I  have  fill'd  them,  emptied  them, 
And  proceed  to  fill  my  next  fold  of  the  future. 

Listener  up  there  !  what  have  you  to  confide  to  me  ? 
Look  in  my  face  while  I  snuff  the  sidle  of  evening, 
(Talk  honestly,  no  one  else  hears  you,  and  I  stay  only  a  minute 
longer.) 

Do  I  contradict  myself? 

Very  well  then  I  contradict  myself, 

(I  am  large,  I  contain  multitudes.) 

I  concentrate  toward  them  that  are  nigh,  I  wait  on  the  door-slab. 

Who  has  done  his  day's  work  ?  who  will  soonest  be  through  with 

his  supper? 
Who  wishes  to  walk  with  me  ? 

Will  you  speak  before  I  am  gone  ?  will  you  prove  already  too  late  ? 

52 

The  spotted  hawk  swoops  by  and  accuses  me,  he  complains  of  my 
gab  and  my  loitering. 

;   I  too  am  not  a  bit  tamed,  I  too  am  untranslatable, 
I  sound  my  barbaric  yawp  over  the  roofs  of  the  world. 

The  last  scud  of  day  holds  back  for  me, 

It  flings  my  likeness  after  the  rest  and  true  as  any  on  the  shadow'd 

wilds, 
It  coaxes  me  to  the  vapor  and  the  dusk. 

I  depart  as  air,  I  shake  my  white  locks  at  the  runaway  sun, 
I  effuse  my  flesh  in  eddies,  and  drift  it  in  lacy  jags. 

I  bequeath  myself  to  the  dirt  to  grow  from  the  grass  I  love, 
If  you  want  me  again  look  for  me  under  your  boot-soles 


CHILDREN  OF  ADAM. 

You  will  hardly  know  who  I  am  or  what  I  mean, 
But  I  shall  be  good  health  to  you  nevertheless, 
And  filter  and  fibre  your  blood. 

Failing  to  fetch  me  at  first  keep  encouraged, 
Missing  me  one  place  search  another, 
X  stop  somewhere  waiting  for  you. 


CHILDREN  OF  ADAM. 


TO   THE   GARDEN   THE   WORLD 

TO  the  garden  the  world  anew  ascending, 
Potent  mates,  daughters,  sons,  preluding, 
The  love,  the  life  of  their  bodies,  meaning  and  being, 
Curious  here  behold  my  resurrection  after  slumber, 
The  revolving  cycles  in  their  wide  sweep  having  brought  me  again, 
Amorous,  mature,  all  beautiful  to  me,  all  wondrous, 
My  limbs  and  the  quivering  fire  that  ever  plays  through  them,  for 

reasons,  most  wondrous, 
Existing  I  peer  and  penetrate  still, 
Content  with  the  present,  content  with  the  past, 
By  my  side  or  back  of  me  Eve  following, 
Or  in  front,  and  I  following  her  just  the  same. 


FROM   PENT-UP   ACHING   RIVERS. 

FROM  pent-up  aching  rivers, 

From  that  of  myself  without  which  I  were  nothing, 

From  what  I  am  determin'd  to  make  illustrious,  even  if  I  stand 

sole  among  men, 

From  my  own  voice  resonant,  singing  the  phallus, 
Singing  the  song  of  procreation, 
Singing  the  need  of  superb  children  and  therein  superb  grown 

people, 

Singing  the  muscular  urge  and  the  blending, 
Singing  the  bedfellow's  song,  (O  resistless  yearning  ! 
O  for  any  and  each  the  body  correlative  attracting  ! 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

0  for  you  whoever  you  are  your  correlative  body  !  O  it,  more  than 

all  else,  you  delighting  !) 

From  the  hungry  gnaw  that  eats  me  night  and  day, 
From  native  moments,  from  bashful  pains,  singing  them, 
Seeking  something  yet  unfound  though  I  have  diligently  sought  it 

many  a  long  year, 

Singing  the  true  song  of  the  soul  fitful  at  random, 
Renascent  with  grossest  Nature  or  among  animals, 
Of  that,  of  them  and  what  goes  with  them  my  poems  informing, 
Of  the  smell  of  apples  and  lemons,  of  the  pairing  of  birds, 
Of  the  wet  of  woods,  of  the  lapping  of  waves, 
Of  the  mad  pushes  of  waves  upon  the  land,  I  them  chanting, 
The  overture  lightly  sounding,  the  strain  anticipating, 
The  welcome  nearness,  the  sight  of  the  perfect  body, 
The  swimmer  swimming  naked  in  the  bath,  or  motionless  on  his 

back  lying  and  floating, 
The  female   form   approaching,  I  pensive,  love-flesh  tremulous 

aching, 

The  divine  list  for  myself  or  you  or  for  any  one  making, 
The  face,  the  limbs,  the  index  from  head  to  foot,  and  what  it 

arouses, 

The  mystic  deliria,  the  madness  amorous,  the  utter  abandonment, 
(Hark  close  and  still  what  I  now  whisper  to  you, 

1  love  you,  O  you  entirely  possess  me, 

O  that  you  and  I  escape  from  the  rest  and  go  utterly  off,  free  and 

lawless, 
Two  hawks  in  the  air,  two  fishes  swimming  in  the  sea  not  more 

lawless  than  we ;) 

The  furious  storm  through  me  careering,  I  passionately  trembling, 
The  oath  of  the  inseparableness  of  two  together,  of  the  woman 

that  loves  me  and  whom  I  love  more  than  my  life,  that  oatk 

swearing, 

(O  I  willingly  stake  all  for  you, 
O  let  me  be  lost  if  it  must  be  so  ! 

O  you  and  I  !  what  is  it  to  us  what  the  rest  do  or  think? 
What  is  all  else  to  us  ?  only  that  we  enjoy  each  other  and  exhaust 

each  other  if  it  must  be  so ;) 
From  the  master,  the  pilot  I  yield  the  vessel  to, 
The  general  commanding  me,  commanding  all,  from  him  permis 
sion  taking, 
From  time  the  programme  hastening,  (I  have  loiter'd  too  long  as 

it  is,) 

From  sex,  from  the  warp  and  from  the  woof, 
From  privacy,  from  frequent  repinings  alone, 
From  plenty  of  persons  near  and  yet  the  right  person  not  near, 


CHILDREN  OF  ADAM.  81 

From  the  soft  sliding  of  hands  over  me  and  thrusting  of  fingers 

through  my  hair  and  beard, 

From  the  long  sustain'd  kiss  upon  the  mouth  or  bosom, 
From  the  close  pressure  that  makes  me  or  any  man  drunk,  fainting 

with  excess, 

From  what  the  divine  husband  knows,  from  the  work  of  fatherhood, 
From  exultation,  victory  and  relief,  from  the  bedfellow's  embrace 

in  the  night, 

From  the  act-poems  of  eyes,  hands,  hips  and  bosoms, 
From  the  cling  of  the  trembling  arm, 
From  the  bending  curve  and  the  clinch, 
From  side  by  side  the  pliant  coverlet  off-throwing, 
From  the  one  so  unwilling  to  have  me  leave,  and  me  just  as  un 
willing  to  leave, 

(Yet  a  moment  O  tender  waiter,  and  I  return,) 
From  the  hour  of  shining  stars  and  dropping  dews, 
From  the  night  a  moment  I  emerging  flitting  out, 
Celebrate  you  act  divine  and  you  children  prepared  for, 
And  you  stalwart  loins. 


I   SING  THE  BODY  ELECTRIC. 

i 

I  SING  the  body  electric, 

The  armies  of  those  I  love  engirth  me  and  I  engirth  them, 
They  will  not  let  me  off  till  I  go  with  them,  respond  to  them, 
And  discorrupt  them,  and  charge  them  full  with  the  charge  of  the 
soul. 

Was  it  doubted  that  those  who  corrupt  their  own  bodies  conceal 

themselves  ? 
And  if  those  who  defile  the  living  are  as  bad  as  they  who  defile 

the  dead? 

And  if  the  body  does  not  do  fully  as  much  as  the  soul? 
And  if  the  body  were  not  the  soul,  what  is  the  soul  ? 


The  love  of  the  body  of  man  or  woman  balks  account,  the  body 

itself  balks  account, 
That  of  the  male  is  perfect,  and  that  of  the  female  is  perfect. 

5  The  expression  of  the  face  balks  account, 

\  But  the  expression  of  a  well-made  man  appears  not  only  in  his 
face, 


82  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

It  is  in  his  lin/bs  and  joints  also,  it  is  curiously  in  the  joints  of  his 
hips  and  wrists, 

It  is  in  his  walk,  the  carriage  of  his  neck,  the  flex  of  his  waist  and 
knees,  dress  does  not  hide  him, 

The  strong  sweet  quality  he  has  strikes  through  the  cotton  and 
broadcloth, 

To  see  him  pass  conveys  as  much  as  the  best  poem,  perhaps  more, 

You  linger  to  see  his  back,  and  the  back  of  his  neck  and  shoul 
der-side. 

The  sprawl  and  fulness  of  babes,  the  bosoms  and  heads  of  women, 
the  folds  of  their  dress,  their  style  as  we  pass  in  the  street, 
the  contour  of  their  shape  downwards, 

The  swimmer  naked  in  the  swimming-bath,  seen  as  he  swims 
through  the  transparent  green-shine,  or  lies  with  his  face 
up  and  rolls  silently  to  and  fro  in  the  heave  of  the  water, 

The  bending  forward  and  backward  of  rowers  in  row-boats,  the 
horseman  in  his  saddle, 

Girls,  mothers,  house-keepers,  in  all  their  performances, 

The  group  of  laborers  seated  at  noon-time  with  their  open  dinner- 
kettles,  and  their  wives  waiting, 

The  female  soothing  a  child,  the  farmer's  daughter  in  the  garden 
or  cow-yard, 

The  young  fellow  hoeing  corn,  the  sleigh-driver  driving  his  six 
horses  through  the  crowd, 

The  wrestle  of  wrestlers,  two  apprentice-boys,  quite  grown,  lusty, 
good-natured,  native-born,  out  on  the  vacant  lot  at  sun 
down  after  work, 

The  coats  and  caps  thrown  down,  the  embrace  of  love  and  resistance, 

The  upper-hold  and  under-hold,  the  hair  rumpled  over  and  blind 
ing  the  eyes ; 

The  march  of  firemen  in  their  own  costumes,  the  play  of  mascu 
line  muscle  through  clean-setting  trowsers  and  waist-straps, 

The  slow  return  from  the  fire,  the  pause  when  the  bell  strikes 
suddenly  again,  and  the  listening  on  the  alert, 

The  natural,  perfect,  varied  attitudes,  the  bent  head,  the  curv'd 
neck  and  the  counting ; 

Such-like  I  love  —  I  loosen  myself,  pass  freely,  am  at  the  mother's 
breast  with  the  little  child, 

Swim  with  the  swimmers,  wrestle  with  wrestlers,  march  in  line  with 
the  firemen,  and  pause,  listen,  count. 

3 

I  knew  a  man,  a  common  farmer,  the  father  of  five  sons, 
And  in  them  the  fathers  of  sons,  and  in  them  the  fathers  of  sons. 


CHILDREN  OF  ADAM.  83 

This  man  was  of  wonderful  vigor,  calmness,  beauty  of  person, 
The  shape  of  his  head,  the  pale  yellow  and  white  of  his  hair  and 

beard,  the  immeasurable  meaning  of  his  black  eyes,  the 

richness  and  breadth  of  his  manners, 
These  I  used  to  go  and  visit  him  to  see,  he  was  wise  also, 
He  was  six  feet  tall,  he  was  over  eighty  years  old,  his  sons  were 

massive,  clean,  bearded,  tan-faced,  handsome, 
They  and  his  daughters  loved  him,  all  who  saw  him  loved  him, 
They  did  not  love  him  by  allowance,  they  loved  him  with  personal 

love, 
He  drank  water  only,  the  blood  show'd  like  scarlet  through  the 

clear-brown  skin  of  his  face, 
He  was  a  frequent  gunner  and  fisher,  he  sail'd  his  boat  himself, 

he  had  a  fine  one  presented  to  him  by  a  ship-joiner,  he 

had  fowling-pieces  presented  to  him  by  men   that  loved 

him, 
When  he  went  with  his  five  sons  and  many  grand-sons  to  hunt  or 

fish,  you  would  pick  him  out  as  the  mosf  beautiful   and 

vigorous  of  the  gang, 
You  would  wish  long  and  long  to  be  with  him,  you  would  wish  to 

sit  by  him  in  the  boat  that  you  and  he  might  touch  each 

other. 

4 

I  have  perceiv'd  that  to  be  with  those  I  like  is  enough, 
To  stop  in  company  with  the  rest  at  evening  is  enough, 
To  be  surrounded  by  beautiful,  curious,  breathing,  laughing  flesh 

is  enough, 
To  pass  among  them  or  touch  any  one,  or  rest  my  arm  ever  so 

lightly  round  his  or  her  neck  for  a  moment,  what  is  this 

then? 
I  do  not  ask  any  more  delight,  I  swim  in  it  as  in  a  sea. 

There  is  something  in  staying  close  to  men  and  women  and  look 
ing  on  them,  and  in  the  contact  and  odor  of  them,  that 
pleases  the  soul  well, 

All  things  please  the  soul,  but  these  please  the  soul  well. 

This  is  the  female  form, 

A  divine  nimbus  exhales  from  it  from  head  to  foot, 

It  attracts  with  fierce  undeniable  attraction, 

I  am  drawn  by  its  breath  as  if  I  were  no  more  than  a  helpless 

vapor,  all  falls  aside  but  myself  and  it, 
Books,  art,  religion,  time,  the  visible  and  solid  earth,  and  what  was 

expected  of  heaven  or  fear'd  of  hell,  are  now  consumed, 


84  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Mad  filaments,  ungovernable  shoots  play  out  of  it,  the  response 
likewise  ungovernable, 

Hair,  bosom,  hips,  bend  of  legs,  negligent  falling  hands  all  dif 
fused,  mine  too  diffused, 

Ebb  stung  by  the  flow  and  flow  stung  by  the  ebb,  love-flesh  swell 
ing  and  deliciously  aching, 

Limitless  limpid  jets  of  love  hot  and  enormous,  quivering  jelly  of 
love,  white-blow  and  delirious  juice, 

Bridegroom  night  of  love  working  surely  and  softly  into  the  pros 
trate  dawn, 

Undulating  into  the  willing  and  yielding  day, 

Lost  in  the  cleave  of  the  clasping  and  sweet-flesh'd  day. 

This  the  nucleus  —  after  the  child  is  born  of  woman,  man  is  born 

of  woman, 
This  the  bath  of  birth,  this  the  merge  of  small  and  large,  and  the 

outlet  again. 

Be  not  ashamed  women,  your  privilege  encloses  the  rest,  and  is  the 

exit  of  the  rest, 
You  are  the  gates  of  the  body,  and  you  are  the  gates  of  the  soul. 

The  female  contains  all  qualities  and  tempers  them, 
She  is  in  her  place  and  moves  with  perfect  balance, 
She  is  all  things  duly  veil'd,  she  is  both  passive  and  active, 
She  is  to  conceive  daughters  as  well  as  sons,  and  sons  as  well  as 
daughters. 

As  I  see  my  soul  reflected  in  Nature, 

As   I  see  through  a  mist,  One  with  inexpressible  completeness, 

sanity,  beauty, 
See  the  bent  head  and  arms  folded  over  the  breast,  the  Female 

I  see. 


The  male  is  not  less  the  soul  nor  more,  he  too  is  in  his  place, 

He  too  is  all  qualities,  he  is  action  and  power, 

The  flush  of  the  known  universe  is  in  him, 

Scorn  becomes  him  well,  and  appetite  and  defiance  become  him 

well, 
The  wildest  largest  passions,  bliss  that  is  utmost,  sorrow  that  is 

utmost  become  him  well,  pride  is  for  him, 

The  full-spread  pride  of  man  is  calming  and  excellent  to  the  soul, 
Knowledge  becomes  him,  he  likes  it  always,  he  brings  every  thing 

to  the  test  of  himself, 


CHILDREN  OF  ADAM.  85 

Whatever  the  survey,  whatever  the  sea  and  the   sail  he  strikes 

soundings  at  last  only  here, 
(Where  else  does  he  strike  soundings  except  here?) 

The  man's  body  is  sacred  and  the  woman's  body  is  sacred, 

No  matter  who  it  is,  it  is  sacred  —  is  it  the  meanest  one  in  the 

laborers'  gang? 

Is  it  one  of  the  dull-faced  immigrants  just  landed  on  the  wharf  ? 
Each  belongs  here  or  anywhere  just  as  much  as  the  well-off,  just 

as  much  as  you, 
Each  has  his  or  her  place  in  the  procession. 

(All  is  a  procession, 

The  universe  is  a  procession  with  measured  and  perfect  motion.) 

Do  you  know  so  much  yourself  that  you  call  the  meanest  ignorant  ? 

Do  you  suppose  you  have  a  right  to  a  good  sight,  and  he  or  she 
has  no  right  to  a  sight  ? 

Do  you  think  matter  has  cohered  together  from  its  diffuse  float, 
and  the  soil  is  on  the  surface,  and  water  runs  and  vegeta 
tion  sprouts, 

For  you  only,  and  not  for  him  and  her? 

7 

A.  man's  body  at  auction, 
(For  before  the  war  I  often  go  to  the  slave-mart  and  watch  the 

sale,) 
I  help  the  auctioneer,  the  sloven  does  not  half  know  his  business. 

Gentlemen  look  on  this  wonder, 

Whatever  the  bids  of  the  bidders  they  cannot  be  high  enough  for  it, 

For  it  the  globe  lay  preparing  quintillions  of  years  without  one 

animal  or  plant, 
For  it  the  revolving  cycles  truly  and  steadily  roll'd. 

In  this  head  the  all-baffling  brain, 

In  it  and  below  it  the  makings  of  heroes. 

Examine  these  limbs,  red,  black,  or  white,  they  are  cunning  in 

tendon  and  nerve, 
They  shall  be  stript  that  you  may  see  them. 

Exquisite  senses,  life-lit  eyes,  pluck,  volition, 

Flakes  of  breast-muscle,  pliant    backbone    and  neck,  flesh  not 

flabby,  good-sized  arms  and  legs, 
And  wonders  within  there  yet. 


86  LEAVES  OF  GRASS* 

Within  there  runs  blood, 

The  same  old  blood  !  the  same  red-running  blood  ! 

There  swells  and  jets  a  heart,  there  all  passions,  desires,  reaching^ 

aspirations, 
(Do  you  think  they  are  not  there  because  they  are  not  express'd  in 

parlors  and  lecture-rooms?) 

This  is  not  only  one  man,  this  the  father  of  those  who  shall  be 

fathers  in  their  turns, 

In  him  the  start  of  populous  states  and  rich  republics, 
Of  him  countless  immortal  lives  with  countless  embodiments  and 

enjoyments. 

How  do  you  know  who  shall  come  from  the  offspring  of  his  off 
spring  through  the  centuries? 

(Who  might  you  find  you  have  come  from  yourself  if  you  could 
trace  back  through  the  centuries  ?) 

8 

A  woman's  body  at  auction, 

She  too  is  not  only  herself,  she  is  the  teeming  mother  of  mothers, 
She  is  the  bearer  of  them  that  shall  grow  and  be  mates  to  the 
mothers. 

Have  you  ever  loved  the  body  of  a  woman? 
Have  you  ever  loved  the  body  of  a  man? 

Do  you  not  see  that  these  are  exactly  the  same  to  all  in  all  nations 
and  times  all  over  the  earth  ? 

If  any  thing  is  sacred  the  human  body  is  sacred, 

And   the   glory  and  sweet  of  a  man  is  the  token  of  manhood 

untainted, 
And  in  man  or  woman  a  clean,  strong,  firm-fibred  body,  is  more 

beautiful  than  the  most  beautiful  face. 

Have  you  seen  the  fool  that  corrupted  his  own  live  body?  or  the 

fool  that  corrupted  her  own  live  body  ? 
For  they  do  not  conceal  themselves,  and  cannot  conceal  themselves. 


0  my  body  !  I  dare  not  desert  the  likes  of  you  in  other  men  and 

women,  nor  the  likes  of  the  parts  of  you, 

1  believe  the  likes  of  you  are  to  stand  or  fall  with  the  likes  of  the 

soul,  (and  that  they  are  the  soul/) 


CHILDREN  OF  ADAM.  87 

I  believe  the  likes  of  you  shall  stand  or  fall  with  my  poems,  and 
that  they  are  my  poems, 

Man's,  woman's,  child's,  youth's,  wife's,  husband's,  mother's,  father's, 
young  man's,  young  woman's  poems, 

Head,  neck,  hair,  ears,  drop  and  tympan  of  the  ears, 

Eyes,  eye-fringes,  iris  of  the  eye,  eyebrows,  and  the  waking  or 
sleeping  of  the  lids, 

Mouth,  tongue,  lips,  teeth,  roof  of  the  mouth,  jaws,  and  the  jaw- 
hinges, 

Nose,  nostrils  of  the  nose,  and  the  partition, 

Cheeks,  temples,  forehead,  chin,  throat,  back  of  the  neck,  neck- 
slue, 

Strong  shoulders,  manly  beard,  scapula,  hind-shoulders,  and  the 
ample  side-round  of  the  chest, 

Upper-arm,  armpit,  elbow-socket,  lower-arm,  arm-sinews,  arm- 
bones, 

Wrist  and  wrist-joints,  hand,  palm,  knuckles,  thumb,  forefinger, 
finger-joints,  finger-nails, 

Broad  breast-front,  curling  hair  of  the  breast,  breast-bone,  breast- 
side, 

Ribs,  belly,  backbone,  joints  of  the  backbone, 

Hips,  hip-sockets,  hip-strength,  inward  and  outward  round,  man- 
balls,  man- root, 

Strong  set  of  thighs,  well  carrying  the  trunk  above, 

Leg-fibres,  knee,  knee-pan,  upper-leg,  under-leg, 

Ankles,  instep,  foot-ball,  toes,  toe-joints,  the  heel ; 

All  attitudes,  all  the  shapeliness,  all  the  belongings  of  my  or  your 
body  or  of  any  one's  body,  male  or  female, 

The  lung-sponges,  the  stomach-sac,  the  bowels  sweet  and  clean, 

The  brain  in  its  folds  inside  the  skull-frame, 

Sympathies,  heart-valves,  palate-valves,  sexuality,  maternity, 

Womanhood,  and  all  that  is  a  woman,  and  the  man  that  comes 
from  woman, 

The  womb,  the  teats,  nipples,  breast-milk,  tears,  laughter,  weeping, 
love-looks,  love-perturbations  and  risings, 

The  voice,  articulation,  language,  whispering,  shouting  aloud, 

Food,  drink,  pulse,  digestion,  sweat,  sleep,  walking,  swimming, 

Poise  on  the  hips,  leaping,  reclining,  embracing,  arm-curving  and 
tightening, 

The  continual  changes  of  the  flex  of  the  mouth,  and  around  the 
eyes, 

The  skin,  the  sunburnt  shade,  freckles,  hair, 

The  curious  sympathy  one  feels  when  feeling  with  the  hand  the 
naked  meat  of  the  body, 

The  circling  rivers  the  breath,  and  breathing  it  in  and  out, 


88  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

The  beauty  of  the  waist,  and  thence  of  the  hips,  and  thence  down 
ward  toward  the  knees, 

The  thin  red  jellies  within  you  or  within  me,  the  bones  and  the 
marrow  in  the  bones, 

The  exquisite  realization  of  health ; 

O  I  say  these  are  not  the  parts  and  poems  of  the  body  only,  but 
of  the  soul, 

O  I  say  now  these  are  the  soul ! 


A  WOMAN   WAITS   FOR   ME. 

A  WOMAN  waits  for  me,  she  contains  all,  nothing  is  lacking, 
Yet  all  were  lacking  if  sex  were  lacking,  or  if  the  moisture  of  the 
right  man  were  lacking. 

Sex  contains  all,  bodies,  souls, 

Meanings,  proofs,  purities,  delicacies,  results,  promulgations, 

Songs,  commands,  health,  pride,  the  maternal  mystery,  the  seminal 

milk, 
All  hopes,  benefactions,  bestowals,  all  the  passions,  loves,  beauties, 

delights  of  the  earth, 

All  the  governments,  judges,  gods,  folio w'd  persons  of  the  earth, 
These  are  contain'd  in  sex  as  parts  of  itself  and  justifications  of 

itself. 

Without  shame  the  man  I  like  knows  and  avows  the  deliciousness 

of  his  sex, 
Without  shame  the  woman  I  like  knows  and  avows  hers. 

Now  I  will  dismiss  myself  from  impassive  women, 

I  will  go  stay  with  her  who  waits  for  me,  and  with  those  women 

that  are  warm-blooded  and  sufficient  for  me, 
I  see  that  they  understand  me  and  do  not  deny  me, 
I  see  that  they  are  worthy  of  me,  I  will  be  the  robust  husband 

of  those  women. 

They  are  not  one  jot  less  than  I  am, 

They  are  tann'd  in  the  face  by  shining  suns  and  blowing  winds, 

Their  flesh  has  the  old  divine  suppleness  and  strength, 

They  know  how  to  swim,  row,  ride,  wrestle,  shoot,  run,  strike, 

retreat,  advance,  resist,  defend  themselves, 
They  are  ultimate  in  their  own  right  —  they  are  calm,  clear,  well* 

possess'd  of  themselves. 


CHILDREN  OF  ADAM.  89 

I  draw  you  close  to  me,  you  women, 

I  cannot  let  you  go,  I  would  do  you  good, 

I  am  for  you,  and  you  are  for  me,  not  only  for  our  own  sake,  but 

for  others'  sakes, 

Envelop'd  in  you  sleep  greater  heroes  and  bards, 
(  They  refuse  to  awake  at  the  touch  of  any  man  but  me. 

It  is  I,  you  women,  I  make  my  way, 

I  am  stern,  acrid,  large,  undissuadable,  but  I  love  you, 

I  do  not  hurt  you  any  more  than  is  necessary  for  you, 

I  pour  the  stuff  to  start  sons  and  daughters  fit  for  these  States,  I 

press  with  slow  rude  muscle, 

I  brace  myself  effectually,  I  listen  to  no  entreaties, 
I  dare  not  withdraw  till  I  deposit  what  has  so  long  accumulated 

within  me. 

Through  you  I  drain  the  pent-up  rivers  of  myself, 

In  you  I  wrap  a  thousand  onward  years, 

On  you  I  graft  the  grafts  of  the  best-beloved  of  me  and  America, 

The  drops  I  distil  upon  you  shall  grow  fierce  and  athletic  girls, 

new  artists,  musicians,  and  singers, 

The  babes  I  beget  upon  you  are  to  beget  babes  in  their  turn, 
I  shall  demand  perfect  men  and  women  out  of  my  love-spendings, 
I  shall  expect  them  to  interpenetrate  with  others,  as  I  and  you 

interpenetrate  now, 
I  shall  count  on  the  fruits  of  the  gushing  showers  of  them,  as  I 

count  on  the  fruits  of  the  gushing  showers  I  give  now, 
I  shall  look  for  loving  crops  from  the  birth,  life,  death,  immortality. 

I  plant  so  lovingly  now. 


SPONTANEOUS   ME. 

SPONTANEOUS  me,  Nature, 

The  loving  day,  the  mounting  sun,  the  friend  I  am  happy  with, 

The  arm  of  my  friend  hanging  idly  over  my  shoulder, 

The  hillside  whiten'd  with  blossoms  of  the  mountain  ash, 

The  same  late  in  autumn,  the  hues  of  red,  yellow,  drab,  purple, 

and  light  and  dark  green, 
The  rich  coverlet  of  the  grass,  animals  and   birds,  the  private 

untrimm'd  bank,  the  primitive  apples,  the  pebble-stones, 
Beautiful  dripping  fragments,  the  negligent  list  of  one  after  an 
other  as  I  happen  to  call  them  to  me  or  think  of  them, 
The  real  poems,  (what  we  call  poems  being  merely  pictures,) 
The  poems  of  the  privacy  of  the  night,  and  of  men  like  me, 


QO  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

This  poem  drooping  shy  and  unseen  that  I  always  carry,  and  that 

all  men  carry, 
(Know  once  for  all,  avow'd  on  purpose,  wherever  are  men  like 

me,  are  our  lusty  lurking  masculine  poems,) 
Love-thoughts,  love-juice,  love-odor,  love-yielding,  love-climbers, 

and  the  climbing  sap, 
Arms  and  hands  of  love,  lips  of  love,  phallic  thumb  of  love,  breasts 

of  love,  bellies  press'd  and  glued  together  with  love, 
Earth  of  chaste  love,  life  that  is  only  life  after  love, 
The  body  of  my  love,  the  body  of  the  woman  I  love,  the  body 

of  the  man,  the  body  of  the  earth, 
Soft  forenoon  airs  that  blow  from  the  south-west, 
The  hairy  wild-bee  that  murmurs  and  hankers  up  and  down,  that 

gripes   the   full-grown  lady-flower,  curves   upon  her  with 

amorous  firm  legs,  takes  his  will  of  her,  and  holds  himself 

tremulous  and  tight  till  he  is  satisfied ; 
The  wet  of  woods  through  the  early  hours, 
Two  sleepers  at  night  lying  close  together  as  they  sleep,  one  with  an 

arm  slanting  down  across  and  below  the  waist  of  the  other, 
The  smell  of  apples,  aromas  from  crush'd  sag^-Dlant,  mint,  birch- 
bark, 
The  boy's  longings,  the  glow  and  pressure  as  he  confides  to  me 

what  he  was  dreaming, 
The  dead  leaf  whirling  its  spiral  whirl  and  falling  still  and  content 

to  the  ground, 

The  no-form 'd  stings  that  sights,  people,  objects,  sting  me  with, 
The  hubb'd  sting  of  myself,  stinging  me  as  much  as  it  ever  can 

any  one, 
The  sensitive,  orbic,  underlapp'd  brothers,  that  only  privileged 

feelers  may  be  intimate  where  they  are, 
The   curious  roamer  the  hand   roaming  all  over  the  body,  the 

bashful  withdrawing  of  flesh  where  the  fingers  soothingly 

pause  and  edge  themselves, 
The  limpid  liquid  within  the  young  man, 
The  vex'd  corrosion  so  pensive  and  so  painful, 
The  torment,  the  irritable  tide  that  will  not  be  at  rest, 
The  like  of  the  same  I  feel,  the  like  of  the  same  in  others, 
The  young  man  that  flushes  and  flushes,  and  the  young  woman 

that  flushes  and  flushes, 
The  young  man  that  wakes  deep  at  night,  the  hot  hand  seeking  to 

repress  what  would  master  him, 
The  mystic  amorous  night,  the  strange  half-welcome  pangs,  visions, 

sweats, 
The   pulse   pounding   through   palms    and    trembling   encircling 

fingers,  the  young  man  all  color'd,  red,  ashamed,  angry ; 


CHILDREN  OF  ADAM.  91 

The  souse  upon  me  of  my  lover  the  sea,  as  I  lie  willing  and  naked, 
The  merriment  of  the  twin  babes  that  crawl  over  the  grass  in  the 

sun,  the  mother  never  turning  her  vigilant  eyes  from  them, 
The  walnut-trunk,  the  walnut-husks,  and  the  ripening  or  ripen'd 

long-round  walnuts, 

The  continence  of  vegetables,  birds,  animals, 
The  consequent  meanness  of  me  should  I  skulk  or  find  myself 

indecent,  while  birds  and  animals   never  once  skulk  or 

find  themselves  indecent, 
The  great  chastity  of  paternity,  to  match  the  great  chastity  of 

maternity, 
The  oath  of  procreation  I   have  sworn,  my  Adamic  and   fresh 

daughters, 
The  greed  that  eats  me  day  and  night  with  hungry  gnaw,  till  I 

saturate  what  shall  produce  boys  to  fill  my  place  when  I 

am  through, 

The  wholesome  relief,  repose,  content, 
And  this  bunch  pluck'd  at  random  from  myself, 
It  has  done  its  work  —  I  toss  it  carelessly  to  fall  where  it  may. 


ONE   HOUR  TO  MADNESS   AND  JOY. 

ONE  hour  to  madness  and  joy  !  O  furious  !  O  confine  me  not ! 

(What  is  this  that  frees  me  so  in  storms? 

What  do  my  shouts  amid  lightnings  and  raging  winds  mean  ?) 

O  to  drink  the  mystic  deliria  deeper  than  any  other  man  ! 

0  savage  and  tender  achings  !    (I  bequeath   them   to   you   my 

children, 

1  tell  them  to  you,  for  reasons,  O  bridegroom  and  bride.) 

O  to  be  yielded  to  you  whoever  you  are,  and  you  to  be  yielded  to 

me  in  defiance  of  the  world  ! 
O  to  return  to  Paradise  !  O  bashful  and  feminine  ! 
O  to  draw  you  to  me,  to  plant  on  you  for  the  first  time  the  lips  of 

a  determin'd  man. 

O  the  puzzle,  the  thrice-tied  knot,  the  deep  and  dark  pool,  all 

untied  and  illumin'd  1 

O  to  speed  where  there  is  space  enough  and  air  enough  at  last ! 
To  be  absolv'd  from  previous  ties  and  conventions,  I  from  mine 

and  you  from  yours  ! 

To  find  a  new  unthought-of  nonchalance  with  the  best  of  Nature ! 
7 


92  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


To  have  the  gag  remov'd  from  one's  mouth  ! 

To  have  the  feeling  to-day  or  any  day  I  am  sufficient  as  I  am. 

O  something  unprov'd  !  something  in  a  trance  ! 

To  escape  utterly  from  others'  anchors  and  holds  ! 

To  drive  free  !  to  love  free  !  to  dash  reckless  and  dangerous  ! 

To  court  destruction  with  taunts,  with  invitations  ! 

To  ascend,  to  leap  to  the  heavens  of  the  love  indicated  to  me  ! 

To  rise  thither  with  my  inebriate  soul ! 

To  be  lost  if  it  must  be  so  ! 

To  feed  the  remainder  of  life  with  one  hour  of  fulness  and  freedom ! 

With  one  brief  hour  of  madness  and  joy. 


OUT   OF   THE   ROLLING   OCEAN   THE   CROWD. 

OUT  of  the  rolling  ocean  the  crowd  came  a  drop  gently  to  me, 

Whispering  /  love  you,  before  long  I  die, 

I  have  traveled  a  long  way  merely  to  look  on  you  to  touch  you, 

For  I  could  not  die  till  I  once  look'd  on  you, 

For  I  fear1  d  I  might  afterward  lose  you. 

Now  we  have  met,  we  have  look'd,  we  are  safe, 

Return  in  peace  to  the  ocean  my  love, 

I  too  am  part  of  that  ocean  my  love,  we  are  not  so  much  sepa 
rated, 

Behold  the  great  rondure,  the  cohesion  of  all,  how  perfect ! 

But  as  for  me,  for  you,  the  irresistible  sea  is  to  separate  us, 

As  for  an  hour  carrying  us  diverse,  yet  cannot  carry  us  diverse  for 
ever; 

Be  not  impatient  —  a  little  space  —  know  you  I  salute  the  air,  the 
ocean  and  the  land, 

Every  day  at  sundown  for  your  dear  sake  my  love. 


AGES  AND  AGES  RETURNING  AT  INTERVALS. 

AGES  and  ages  returning  at  intervals, 

Undestroy'd,  wandering  immortal, 

Lusty,  phallic,  with  the  potent  original  loins,  perfectly  sweet, 

I,  chanter  of  Adamic  songs, 

Through  the  new  garden  the  West,  the  great  cities  calling, 

Deliriate,  thus  prelude  what  is  generated,  offering  these,  offering 

myself, 

Bathing  myself,  bathing  my  songs  in  Sex, 
Offspring  of  my  loins. 


CHILDREN  OF  ADAM.  93 

WE   TWO,   HOW   LONG   WE   WERE   FOOL'D. 

WE  two,  how  long  we  were  fool'd, 

Now  transmuted,  we  swiftly  escape  as  Nature  escapes, 

We  are  Nature,  long  have  we  been  absent,  but  now  we  return, 

We  become  plants,  trunks,  foliage,  roots,  bark, 

We  are  bedded  in  the  ground,  we  are  rocks, 

We  are  oaks,  we  grow  in  the  openings  side  by  side, 

We  browse,  we  are  two  among  the  wild  herds  spontaneous  as 

any, 

We  are  two  fishes  swimming  in  the  sea  together, 
We  are  what  locust  blossoms  are,  we  drop  scent  around  lanes 

mornings  and  evenings, 

We  are  also  the  coarse  smut  of  beasts,  vegetables,  minerals, 
We  are  two  predatory  hawks,  we  soar  above  and  look  down, 
We  are  two  resplendent  suns,  we  it  is  who  balance  ourselves  orbic 

and  stellar,  we  are  as  two  comets, 
We  prowl  fang'd  and  four-footed  in  the  woods,  we  spring  on 

prey, 

We  are  two  clouds  forenoons  and  afternoons  driving  overhead, 
We  are  seas  mingling,  we  are  two  of  those  cheerful  waves  rolling 

over  each  other  and  interwetting  each  other, 
We  are  what  the  atmosphere  is,  transparent,  receptive,  pervious, 

impervious, 
We  are  snow,  rain,  cold,  darkness,  we  are   each  product   and 

influence  of  the  globe, 
We  have  circled  and  circled  till  we  have  arrived  home  again,  we 

two, 
We  have  voided  all  but  freedom  and  all  but  our  own  joy. 


O   HYMEN!   O   HYMENEE! 

O  HYMEN  !  O  hymenee  !  why  do  you  tantalize  me  thus? 
O  why  sting  me  for  a  swift  moment  only  ? 
Why  can  you  not  continue  ?  O  why  do  you  now  cease  ? 
Is  it  because  if  you  continued  beyond   the   swift   moment  you 
would  soon  certainly  kill  me  ? 


I   AM   HE   THAT   ACHES   WITH   LOVE. 

I  AM  he  that  aches  with  amorous  love  ; 

Does  the  earth  gravitate?  does  not  all  matter,  aching,  attract  all 

matter  ? 
So  the  body  of  me  to  all  I  meet  or  know. 


94  LEA  YES  OF  GRASS. 

NATIVE   MOMENTS. 

NATIVE  moments  —  when  you  come  upon  me  —  ah  you  are  here 

now, 

Give  me  now  libidinous  joys  only, 

Give  me  the  drench  of  my  passions,  give  me  life  coarse  and  rank, 
To-day  I  go  consort  with  Nature's  darlings,  to-night  too, 
I  am  for  those  who  believe  in  loose  delights,  I  share  the  midnight 

orgies  of  young  men, 

I  dance  with  the  dancers  and  drink  with  the  drinkers, 
The  echoes  ring  with  our  indecent  calls,  I  pick  out   some   low 

person  for  my  dearest  friend, 
He  shall  be  lawless,  rude,  illiterate,  he  shall  be  one  condemn'd  by 

others  for  deeds  done, 
I  will  play  a  part  no  longer,  why  should  I  exile  myself  from  my 

companions  ? 

0  you  shunn'd  persons,  I  at  least  do  not  shun  you, 

1  come  forthwith  in  your  midst,  I  will  be  your  poet, 
I  will  be  more  to  you  than  to  any  of  the  rest. 


ONCE   I    PASS'D   THROUGH   A   POPULOUS   CITY. 

ONCE  I  pass'd  through  a  populous  city  imprinting  my  brain  for 
future  use  with  its  shows,  architecture,  customs,  traditions, 

Yet  now  of  all  that  city  I  remember  only  a  woman  I  casually  met 
there  who  detain'd  me  for  love  of  me, 

Day  by  day  and  night  by  night  we  were  together  —  all  else  has 
long  been  forgotten  by  me, 

I  remember  I  say  only  that  woman  who  passionately  clung  to  me, 

Again  we  wander,  we  love,  we  separate  again, 

Again  she  holds  me  by  the  hand,  I  must  not  go, 

I  see  her  close  beside  me  with  silent  lips  sad  and  tremulous. 


I  HEARD  YOU  SOLEMN-SWEET  PIPES  OF  THE  ORGAN. 

I  HEARD  you  solemn-sweet  pipes  of  the  organ  as  last  Sunday  morn 

I  pass'd  the  church, 
Winds  of  autumn,  as  I  walk'd  the  woods  at  dusk  I  heard  your 

long-stretch'd  sighs  up  above  so  mournful, 
I  heard  the  perfect  Italian  tenor  singing  at  the  opera,  I  heard  the 

soprano  in  the  midst  of  the  quartet  singing ; 
Heart  of  my  love  !  you  too  I  heard  murmuring  low  through  one 

of  the  wrists  around  my  head, 
Heard  the  pulse  of  you  when  all  was  still  ringing  little  bells  last 

night  under  my  ear. 


CALAMUS.  95 

FACING  WEST   FROM    CALIFORNIA'S    SHORES. 

FACING  west  from  California's  shores, 

Inquiring,  tireless,  seeking  what  is  yet  unfound, 

I,  a  child,  very  old,  over  waves,  towards  the  house  of  maternity, 

the  land  of  migrations,  look  afar, 

Look  off  the  shores  of  my  Western  sea,  the  circle  almost  circled  ; 
For  starting  westward  from  Hindustan,  from  the  vales  of  Kash- 

mere, 
From  Asia,  from  the  north,  from  the  God,  the  sage,  and  the 

hero, 

From  the  south,  from  the  flowery  peninsulas  and  the  spice  islands, 
Long  having  wander'd  since,  round  the  earth  having  wander'd, 
Now  I  face  home  again,  very  pleas'd  and  joyous, 
(But  where  is  what  I  started  for  so  long  ago  ? 
And  why  is  it  yet  unfound  ?) 


AS  ADAM  EARLY  IN  THE  MORNING. 

As  Adam  early  in  the  morning, 

Walking  forth  from  the  bower  refresh'd  with  sleep, 

Behold  me  where  I  pass,  hear  my  voice,  approach, 

Touch  me,  touch  the  palm  of  your  hand  to  my  body  as  I  pass, 

Be  not  afraid  of  my  body. 


CALAMUS. 


IN   PATHS   UNTRODDEN. 

IN  paths  untrodden, 
In  the  growth  by  margins  of  pond-waters, 
Escaped  from  the  life  that  exhibits  itself, 
From  all  the  standards  hitherto  published,  from  the  pleasures, 

profits,  conformities. 

Which  too  long  I  was  offering  to  feed  my  soul, 
Clear  to  me  now  standards  not  yet  publish'd,  clear  to  me  that  my 

soul, 

That  the  soul  of  the  man  I  speak  for  rejoices  in  comrades, 
Here  by  myself  away  from  the  clank  of  the  world, 
Tallying  and  talk'd  to  here  by  tongues  aromatic, 


9^  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

No  longer  abash'd,  (for  in  this  secluded  spot  I  can  respond  as  I 

would  not  dare  elsewhere,) 
Strong  upon  me  the  life  that  does  not  exhibit  itself,  yet  contains 

all  the  rest, 

Resolv'd  to  sing  no  songs  to-day  but  those  of  manly  attachment, 
Projecting  them  along  that  substantial  life, 
Bequeathing  hence  types  of  athletic  love, 
Afternoon  this  delicious  Ninth-month  in  my  forty-first  year, 
I  proceed  for  all  who  are  or  have  been  young  men, 
To  tell  the  secret  of  my  nights  and  days, 
To  celebrate  the  need  of  comrades. 


SCENTED  HERBAGE  OF  MY  BREAST. 

SCENTED  herbage  of  my  breast, 

Leaves  from  you  I  glean,  I  write,  to  be  perused  best  afterwards, 
Tomb-leaves,  body-leaves  growing  up  above  me  above  death, 
Perennial  roots,  tall  leaves,  O  the  winter  shall  not  freeze  you 

delicate  leaves, 
Every  year  shall  you  bloom  again,  out  from  where  you  retired  you 

shall  emerge  again ; 
O  I  do  not  know  whether  many  passing  by  will  discover  you  or 

inhale  your  faint  odor,  but  I  believe  a  few  will ; 
O  slender  leaves  !  O  blossoms  of  my  blood  !  I  permit  you  to  tell 

in  your  own  way  of  the  heart  that  is  under  you, 
O  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  there  underneath  yourselves,  you 

are  not  happiness, 

You  are  often  more  bitter  than  I  can  bear,  you  burn  and  sting  me, 
Yet  you  are  beautiful  to  me  you  faint  tinged  roots,  you  make  me 

think  of  death, 
Death  is  beautiful  from  you,  (what  indeed  is  finally  beautiful  except 

death  and  love  ?) 
O  I  think  it  is  not  for  life  I  am  chanting  here  my  chant  of  lovers, 

I  think  it  must  be  for  death, 
For  how  calm,  how  solemn  it  grows  to  ascend  to  the  atmosphere 

of  lovers, 

Death  or  life  I  am  then  indifferent,  my  soul  declines  to  prefer, 
(I  am  not  sure  but  the  high  soul  of  lovers  welcomes  death  most,) 
Indeed  O  death,  I  think  now  these  leaves  mean  precisely  the  same 

as  you  mean, 
Grow  up  taller  sweet  leaves  that  I  may  see  !  grow  up  out  of  my 

breast ! 

Spring  away  from  the  conceal'd  heart  there  ! 
Do  not  fold  yourself  so  in  your  pink-tinged  roots  timid  leaves  ! 


CALAMUS.  97 

Do  not  remain  down  there  so  ashamed,  herbage  of  my  breast ! 
Come  I  am  determin'd  to  unbare  this  broad  breast  of  mine,  I 

have  long  enough  stifled  and  choked ; 
Emblematic  and  capricious  blades  I  leave  you,  now  you  serve  me 

not, 

I  will  say  what  I  have  to  say  by  itself, 
I  will  sound  myself  and  comrades  only,  I  will  never  again  utter  a 

call  only  their  call, 

I  will  raise  with  it  immortal  reverberations  through  the  States, 
I  will  give  an  example  to  lovers  to  take  permanent  shape  and 

will  through  the  States, 

Through  me  shall  the  words  be  said  to  make  death  exhilarating, 
Give  me  your  tone  therefore  O  death,  that  I  may  accord  with  it, 
Give  me  yourself,  for  I  see  that  you  belong  to  me  now  above  all, 

and  are  folded  inseparably  together,  you  love  and  death  are, 
Nor  will  I  allow  you  to  balk  me  any  more  with  what  I  was  calling  life, 
For  now  it  is  convey'd  to  me  that  you  are  the  purports  essential, 
That  you  hide  in  these  shifting  forms  of  life,  for  reasons,  and  that 

they  are  mainly  for  you, 

That  you  beyond  them  come  forth  to  remain,  the  real  reality, 
That  behind  the  mask  of  materials  you  patiently  wait,  no  matter 

how  long, 

That  you  will  one  day  perhaps  take  control  of  all, 
That  you  will  perhaps  dissipate  this  entire  show  of  appearance, 
That  may-be  you  are  what  it  is  all  for,  but  it  does  not  last  so  very 

long, 
But  you  will  last  very  long. 


WHOEVER  YOU  ARE   HOLDING   ME   NOW  IN   HAND. 

WHOEVER  you  are  holding  me  now  in  hand, 
Without  one  thing  all  will  be  useless, 
I  give  you  fair  warning  before  you  attempt  me  further, 
I  am  not  what  you  supposed,  but  far  different. 

Who  is  he  that  would  become  my  follower? 

Who  would  sign  himself  a  candidate  for  my  affections  ? 

The  way  is  suspicious,  the  result  uncertain,  perhaps  destructive, 
You  would  have  to  give  up  all  else,  I  alone  would  expect  to  be 

your  sole  and  exclusive  standard, 

Your  novitiate  would  even  then  be  long  and  exhausting, 
The  whole  past  theory  of  your  life  and  all  conformity  to  the  lives 

around  you  would  have  to  be  abandon'd, 


98  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Therefore  release  me  now  before  troubling  yourself  any  further,  let 

go  your  hand  from  my  shoulders, 
Put  me  down  and  depart  on  your  way. 

Or  else  by  stealth  in  some  wood  for  trial, 

Or  back  of  a  rock  in  the  open  air, 

(For  in  any  roof'd  room  of  a  house  I  emerge  not,  nor  in  com 
pany, 

And  in  libraries  I  lie  as  one  dumb,  a  gawk,  or  unborn,  or  dead,) 

But  just  possibly  with  you  on  a  high  hill,  first  watching  lest  any 
person  for  miles  around  approach  unawares, 

Or  possibly  with  you  sailing  at  sea,  or  on  the  beach  of  the  sea  or 
some  quiet  island, 

Here  to  put  your  lips  upon  mine  I  permit  you, 

With  the  comrade's  long-dwelling  kiss  or  the  new  husband's  kiss, 

For  I  am  the  new  husband  and  I  am  the  comrade. 

Or  if  you  will,  thrusting  me  beneath  your  clothing, 

Where  I  may  feel  the  throbs  of  your  heart  or  rest  upon  your 

hip, 

Carry  me  when  you  go  forth  over  land  or  sea ; 
For  thus  merely  touching  you  is  enough,  is  best, 
And   thus   touching  you  would  I  silently  sleep  and   be  carried 

eternally. 

But  these  leaves  conning  you  con  at  peril, 

For  these  leaves  and  me  you  will  not  understand, 

They  will   elude   you   at   first   and   still   more   afterward,   I  will 

certainly  elude  you, 
Even  while  you  should  think  you  had  unquestionably  caught  me, 

behold  ! 
Already  you  see  I  have  escaped  from  you. 

For  it  is  not  for  what  I  have  put  into  it  that  I  have  written  this 

book, 

Nor  is  it  by  reading  it  you  will  acquire  it, 
Nor  do  those  know  me  best  who  admire  me  and  vauntingly  praise 

me, 
Nor  will  the  candidates  for  my  love  (unless  at  most  a  very  few) 

prove  victorious, 
Nor  will  my  poems  do  good  only,  they  will  do  just  as  much  evil, 

perhaps  more, 
For  all  is  useless  without  that  which  you  may  guess  at  many  times 

and  not  hit,  that  which  I  hinted  at ; 
Therefore  release  me  and  depart  on  your  way. 


CALAMUS.  99 

FOR   YOU   O   DEMOCRACY. 

COME,  I  will  make  the  continent  indissoluble, 

I  will  make  the  most  splendid  race  the  sun  ever  shone  upon, 

I  will  make  divine  magnetic  lands, 

With  the  love  of  comrades, 

With  the  life-long  love  of  comrades. 

I  will  plant  companionship  thick  as  trees  along  all  the  rivers  of 
America,  and  along  the  shores  of  the  great  lakes,  and  all 
over  the  prairies, 

;  I  will  make  inseparable  cities  with  their  arms  about  each  other's 
necks, 

By  the  love  of  comrades, 

By  the  manly  love  of  comrades. 

For  you  these  from  me,  O  Democracy,  to  serve  you  rna  femme  ! 
For  you,  for  you  I  am  trilling  these  songs. 


THESE   I   SINGING   IN   SPRING. 

THESE  I  singing  in  spring  collect  for  lovers, 

(For  who  but  I  should  understand  lovers  and  all  their  sorrow  and 

joy? 

And  who  but  I  should  be  the  poet  of  comrades  ?) 
Collecting  I  traverse  the  garden  the  world,  but  soon  I  pass  the 

gates, 
Now  along  the  pond-side,  now  wading  in  a  little,  fearing  not  the 

wet, 
Now  by  the  post-and-rail  fences  where  the  old  stones  thrown  there, 

pick'd  from  the  fields,  have  accumulated, 
(Wild-flowers  and  vines  and  weeds  come  up  through  the  stones 

and  partly  cover  them,  beyond  these  I  pass,) 
Far,  far  in  the  forest,  or  sauntering  later  in  summer,  before  I  think 

where  I  go, 
Solitary,  smelling  the  earthy  smell,  stopping  now  and  then  in  the 

silence, 

Alone  I  had  thought,  yet  soon  a  troop  gathers  around  me, 
Some  walk  by  my  side  and  some  behind,  and  some  embrace  my 

arms  or  neck, 
They  the  spirits  of  dear  friends  dead  or  alive,  thicker  they  come, 

a  great  crowd,  and  I  in  the  middle, 
Collecting,  dispensing,  singing,  there  I  wander  with  them, 
Plucking  something  for  tokens,  tossing  toward  whoever  is  near  me, 
Here,  lilac,  with  a  branch  of  pine, 


IOO  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Here,  out  of  my  pocket,  some  moss  which  I  pull'd  off  a  live-oak 

in  Florida  as  it  hung  trailing  down, 

Here,  some  pinks  and  laurel  leaves,  and  a  handful  of  sage, 
And  here  what  I  now  draw  from  the  water,  wading  in  the  pond- 
side, 
(O  here  I  last  saw  him  that  tenderly  loves  me,  and  returns  again 

never  to  separate  from  me, 
And  this,  O  this  shall  henceforth  be  the  token  of  comrades,  this 

calamus-root  shall, 

Interchange  it  youths  with  each  other  !  let  none  render  it  back  !) 
And  twigs  of  maple  and  a  bunch  of  wild  orange  and  chestnut, 
And  stems  of  currants  and  plum-blows,  and  the  aromatic  cedar, 
These  I  compass'd  around  by  a  thick  cloud  of  spirits, 
Wandering,  point  to  or  touch  as  I  pass,  or  throw  them  loosely 

from  me, 
Indicating  to  each  one  what  he  shall  have,  giving  something  to 

each ; 

But  what  I  drew  from  the  water  by  the  pond-side,  that  I  reserve, 
I  will  give  of  it,  but  only  to  them  that  love  as  I  myself  am  capable 

of  loving. 

NOT   HEAVING   FROM   MY   RIBB'D   BREAST   ONLY. 

NOT  heaving  from  my  ribb'd  breast  only, 

Not  in  sighs  at  night  in  rage  dissatisfied  with  myself, 

Not  in  those  long-drawn,  ill-supprest  sighs, 

Not  in  many  an  oath  and  promise  broken, 

Not  in  my  wilful  and  savage  soul's  volition, 

Not  in  the  subtle  nourishment  of  the  air, 

Not  in  this  beating  and  pounding  at  my  temples  and  wrists, 

Not  in  the  curious  systole  and  diastole  within  which  will  one  day 

cease, 

Not  in  many  a  hungry  wish  told  to  the  skies  only, 
Not  in  cries,  laughter,  defiances,  thrown  from  me  when  alone  far 

in  the  wilds, 

Not  in  husky  pantings  through  clinch'd  teeth, 
Not  in  sounded  and  resounded  words,  chattering  words,  echoes, 

dead  words, 

Not  in  the  murmurs  of  my  dreams  while  I  sleep, 
Nor  the  other  murmurs  of  these  incredible  dreams  of  every  day, 
Nor  in  the  limbs  and  senses  of  my  body  that  take  you  and  dismiss 

you  continually  —  not  there, 

Not  in  any  or  all  of  them  O  adhesiveness  !  O  pulse  of  my  life  ! 
Need  I  that  you  exist  and  show  yourself  any  more  than  in  these 

songs. 


CALAMUS.  101 

OF   THE   TERRIBLE   DOUBT   OF   APPEARANCES. 

OF  the  terrible  doubt  of  appearances, 

Of  the  uncertainty  after  all,  that  we  may  be  deluded, 

That  may-be  reliance  and  hope  are  but  speculations  after  all, 

That  may-be  identity  beyond  the  grave  is  a  beautiful  fable  only, 

May-be  the   things   I   perceive,  the  animals,  plants,  men,   hills, 

shining  and  flowing  waters, 
The  skies  of  day  and  night,  colors,  densities,  forms,  may-be  these 

are  (as  doubtless  they  are)  only  apparitions,  and  the  real 

something  has  yet  to  be  known, 
(How  often  they  dart  out  of  themselves  as  if  to  confound  me  and 

mock  me  ! 
How  often  I  think  neither  I  know,  nor  any  man  knows,  aught  of 

them,) 
May-be  seeming  to  me  what  they  are  (as  doubtless  they  indeed 

but  seem)  as  from  my  present  point  of  view,  and  might 

prove  (as   of  course   they  would)  nought  of  what  they 

appear,  or  nought  anyhow,  from  entirely  changed  points 

of  view ; 
To  me  these  and  the  like  of  these  are  curiously  answer'd  by  my 

lovers,  my  dear  friends, 
When  he  whom  I  love  travels  with  me  or  sits  a  long  while  holding 

me  by  the  hand, 
When   the  subtle  air,  the  impalpable,  the  sense  that  words  and 

reason  hold  not,  surround  us  and  pervade  us, 
Then   I   am   charged  with  untold  and  untellable  wisdom,  I  am 

silent,  I  require  nothing  further, 
I  cannot  answer  the  question  of  appearances  or  that  of  identity 

beyond  the  grave, 

But  I  walk  or  sit  indifferent,  I  am  satisfied, 
He  ahold  of  my  hand  has  completely  satisfied  me. 


THE   BASE   OF  ALL   METAPHYSICS. 

AND  now  gentlemen, 

A  word  I  give  to  remain  in  your  memories  and  minds, 

As  base  and  finale  too  for  all  metaphysics. 

(So  to  the  students  the  old  professor, 
At  the  close  of  his  crowded  course.) 

Having  studied  the  new  and  antique,  the  Greek  and  Germanic 

systems, 
Kant  having  studied  and  stated,  Fichte  and  Schelling  and  Hegel, 


IO2  LEAVES  OP  GRASS. 

Stated  the  lore  of  Plato,  and  Socrates  greater  than  Plato, 

And  greater  than  Socrates  sought  and  stated,  Christ  divine  having 

studied  long, 

I  see  reminiscent  to-day  those  Greek  and  Germanic  systems, 
See  the  philosophies  all,  Christian  churches  and  tenets  see, 
Yet  underneath  Socrates  clearly  see,  and  underneath  Christ  the 

divine  I  see, 
The  dear  love  of  man  for  his  comrade,  the  attraction  of  friend  to 

friend, 

Of  the  well-married  husband  and  wife,  of  children  and  parents, 
Of  city  for  city  and  land  for  land. 


RECORDERS   AGES   HENCE. 

RECORDERS  ages  hence, 

Come,  I  will  take  you  down  underneath  this  impassive  exterior,  I 
will  tell  you  what  to  say  of  me, 

Publish  my  name  and  hang  up  my  picture  as  that  of  the  tenderest 
lover, 

The  friend  the  lover's  portrait,  of  whom  his  friend  his  lover  was 
fondest, 

Who  was  not  proud  of  his  songs,  but  of  the  measureless  ocean  of 
love  within  him,  and  freely  pour'd  it  forth, 

Who  often  walk'd  lonesome  walks  thinking  of  his  dear  friends,  his 
lovers, 

Who  pensive  away  from  one  he  lov'd  often  lay  sleepless  and  dissat 
isfied  at  night, 

Who  knew  too  well  the  sick,  sick  dread  lest  the  one  he  lov'd 
might  secretly  be  indifferent  to  him, 

Whose  happiest  days  were  far  away  through  fields,  in  woods,  on 
hills,  he  and  another  wandering  hand  in  hand,  they  twain 
apart  from  other  men, 

Who  oft  as  he  saunter'd  the  streets  curv'd  with  his  arm  the  shoul 
der  of  his  friend,  while  the  arm  of  his  friend  rested  upon 
him  also. 


WHEN   I    HEARD  AT  THE  CLOSE   OF   THE   DAY. 

WHEN  I  heard  at  the  close  of  the  day  how  my  name  had  been 
receiv'd  with  plaudits  in  the  capitol,  still  it  was  not  a  happy 
night  for  me  that  follow'd, 

And  else  when  I  carous'd,  or  when  my  plans  were  accomplish'd, 
still  I  was  not  happy, 


CALAMUS.  103 

But  the  day  when  I  rose  at  dawn  from  the  bed  of  perfect  health, 

refresh'd,  singing,  inhaling  the  ripe  breath  of  autumn, 
When  I  saw  the  full  moon  in  the  west  grow  pale  and  disappear  in 

the  morning  light, 
When  I  wander'd  alone  over  the  beach,  and  undressing  bathed, 

laughing  with  the  cool  waters,  and  saw  the  sun  rise, 
And  when  I  thought  how  my  dear  friend  my  lover  was  on  his  way 

coming,  O  then  I  was  happy, 

0  then   each  breath  tasted  sweeter,  and  all  that  day  my  food 

nourish'd  me  more,  and  the  beautiful  day  pass'd  well, 
And  the  next  came  with  equal  joy,  and  with  the  next  at  evening 

came  my  friend, 
And  that  night  while  all  was  still  I  heard  the  waters  roll  slowly 

continually  up  the  shores, 

1  heard  the  hissing  rustle  of  the  liquid  and  sands  as  directed  to 

me  whispering  to  congratulate  me, 
For  the  one  I  love  most  lay  sleeping  by  me  under  the  same  cover 

in  the  cool  night, 
In  the  stillness  in  the  autumn  moonbeams  his  face  was  inclined 

toward  me, 
And  his  arm  lay  lightly  around  my  breast  —  and  that  night  I  was 

happy. 


ARE   YOU   THE   NEW  PERSON   DRAWN  TOWARD  ME? 

ARE  you  the  new  person  drawn  toward  me? 

To  begin  with  take  warning,  I  am  surely  far  different  from  what 

you  suppose ; 

Do  you  suppose  you  will  find  in  me  your  ideal  ? 
Do  you  think  it  so  easy  to  have  me  become  your  lover  ? 
Do  you  think  the  friendship  of  me  would  be  unalloy'd  satisfaction  ? 
Do  you  think  I  am  trusty  and  faithful  ? 
Do  you  see  no  further  than  this  fagade,  this  smooth  and  tolerant 

manner  of  me  ? 
Do  you  suppose  yourself  advancing  on  real  ground  toward  a  real 

heroic  man? 
Have  you  no  thought  O  dreamer  that  it  may  be  all  maya,  illusion? 


ROOTS   AND   LEAVES   THEMSELVES   ALONE. 

ROOTS  and  leaves  themselves  alone  are  these, 
Scents  brought  to  men  and  women  from  the  wild  woods  and 
pond-side, 


104  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Breast-sorrel  and  pinks  of  love,  fingers  that  wind  around  tighter 

than  vines, 
Gushes  from  the  throats  of  birds  hid  in  the  foliage  of  trees  as  the 

sun  is  risen, 
Breezes  of  land  and  love  set  from  living  shores  to  you  on  the  living 

sea,  to  you  O  sailors  ! 
Frost-mellow'd  berries  and  Third-month   twigs   offer'd   fresh   to 

young  persons  wandering  out  in  the  fields  when  the  winter 

breaks  up, 

Love-buds  put  before  you  and  within  you  whoever  you  are, 
Buds  to  be  unfolded  on  the  old  terms, 
If  you  bring  the  warmth  of  the  sun  to  them  they  will  open  and 

bring  form,  color,  perfume,  to  you, 
If  you  become  the  aliment  and  the  wet  they  will  become  flowers, 

fruits,  tall  branches  and  trees. 


NOT   HEAT   FLAMES   UP   AND   CONSUMES. 

NOT  heat  flames  up  and  consumes, 

Not  sea-waves  hurry  in  and  out, 

Not  the  air  delicious  and  dry,  the  air  of  ripe  summer,  bears  lightly 
along  white  down-balls  of  myriads  of  seeds, 

Wafted,  sailing  gracefully,  to  drop  where  they  may ; 

Not  these,  O  none  of  these  more  than  the  flames  of  me,  consum 
ing,  burning  for  his  love  whom  I  love, 

O  none  more  than  I  hurrying  in  and  out ; 

Does  the  tide  hurry,  seeking  something,  and  never  give  up  ?  O  I 
the  same, 

O  nor  down-balls  nor  perfumes,  nor  the  high  rain-emitting  clouds, 
are  borne  through  the  open  air, 

Any  more  than  my  soul  is  borne  through  the  open  air, 

Wafted  in  all  directions  O  love,  for  friendship,  for  you. 


TRICKLE   DROPS. 

TRICKLE  drops  !  my  blue  veins  leaving  ! 

O  drops  of  me  !  trickle,  slow  drops, 

Candid  from  me  falling,  drip,  bleeding  drops, 

From  wounds  made  to  free  you  whence  you  were  prison'd, 

From  my  face,  from  my  forehead  and  lips, 

From  my  breast,  from  within  where  I  was  conceaPd,  press  forth 

red  drops,  confession  drops, 
Stain  every  page,  stain  every  song  I  sing,  every  word  I  say,  bloody 

drops, 


CALAMUS.  105 


Let  them  know  your  scarlet  heat,  let  them  glisten, 
Saturate  them  with  yourself  all  ashamed  and  wet, 
Glow  upon  all  I  have  written  or  shall  write,  bleeding  drops, 
Let  it  all  be  seen  in  your  light,  blushing  drops. 


CITY  OF   ORGIES. 

CITY  of  orgies,  walks  and  joys, 

City  whom  that  I  have  lived  and  sung  in  your  midst  will  one  day 
make  you  illustrious, 

Not  the  pageants  of  you,  not  your  shifting  tableaus,  your  specta 
cles,  repay  me, 

Not  the  interminable  rows  of  your  houses,  nor  the  ships  at  the 
wharves, 

Nor  the  processions  in  the  streets,  nor  the  bright  windows  with 
goods  in  them, 

Nor  to  converse  with  learn'd  persons,  or  bear  my  share  in  the  soiree 
or  feast ; 

Not  those,  but  as  I  pass  O  Manhattan,  your  frequent  and  swift 
flash  of  eyes  offering  me  love, 

Offering  response  to  my  own  —  these  repay  me, 

Lovers,  continual  lovers,  only  repay  me. 


BEHOLD   THIS    SWARTHY   FACE. 

BEHOLD  this  swarthy  face,  these  gray  eyes, 

This  beard,  the  white  wool  unclipt  upon  my  neck, 

My  brown  hands  and  the  silent  manner  of  me  without  charm ; 

Yet  comes  one  a  Manhattanese  and  ever  at  parting  kisses  me 

lightly  on  the  lips  with  robust  love, 
And  I  on  the  crossing  of  the  street  or  on  the  ship's  deck  give  a 

kiss  in  return, 

We  observe  that  salute  of  American  comrades  land  and  sea, 
We  are  those  two  natural  and  nonchalant  persons. 


I    SAW   IN   LOUISIANA   A   LIVE-OAK  GROWING. 

I  SAW  in  Louisiana  a  live-oak  growing, 

All  alone  stood  it  and  the  moss  hung  down  from  the  branches, 

Without  any  companion  it  grew  there  uttering  joyous  leaves  of 

dark  green, 

And  its  look,  rude,  unbending,  lusty,  made  me  think  of  myself, 
But  I  wonder'd  how  it  could  utter  joyous  leaves  standing  alone 

there  without  its  friend  near,  for  I  knew  I  could  not, 


to6  LEAVES  OF 


And  I  broke  off  a  twig  with  a  certain  number  of  leaves  upon  it 

and  twined  around  it  a  little  moss, 

And  brought  it  away,  and  I  have  placed  it  in  sight  in  my  room, 
It  is  not  needed  to  remind  me  as  of  my  own  dear  friends, 
(For  I  believe  lately  I  think  of  little  else  than  of  them,) 
Yet  it  remains  to  me  a  curious  token,  it  makes  me  think  of  manly 

love; 
For  all  that,  and  though  the  live-oak  glistens  there  in  Louisiana 

solitary  in  a  wide  flat  space, 

Uttering  joyous  leaves  all  its  life  without  a  friend  a  lover  near, 
I  know  very  well  I  could  not. 


TO  A  STRANGER. 

PASSING  stranger  !  you  do  not  know  how  longingly  I  look  upon 

you, 
You  must  be  he  I  was  seeking,  or  she  I  was  seeking,  (it  comes  to 

me  as  of  a  dream,) 

I  have  somewhere  surely  lived  a  life  of  joy  with  you, 
All  is  recalFd  as  we  flit  by  each  other,  fluid,  affectionate,  chaste, 

matured, 

You  grew  up  with  me,  were  a  boy  with  me  or  a  girl  with  me, 
I  ate  with  you  and  slept  with  you,  your  body  has  become  not  yours 

only  nor  left  my  body  mine  only, 
You  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your  eyes,  face,  flesh,  as  we  pass,  you 

take  of  my  beard,  breast,  hands,  in  return, 
I  am  not  to  speak  to  you,  I  am  to  think  of  you  when  I  sit  alone 

or  wake  at  night  alone, 

I  am  to  wait,  I  do  not  doubt  I  am  to  meet  you  again, 
I  am  to  see  to  it  that  I  do  not  lose  you. 


THIS   MOMENT  YEARNING  AND   THOUGHTFUL. 

THIS  moment  yearning  and  thoughtful  sitting  alone, 

It  seems  to  me  there  are  other  men  in  other  lands  yearning  and 

thoughtful, 
It  seems  to  me  I  can  look  over  and  behold  them  in  Germany, 

Italy,  France,  Spain, 
Or  far,  far  away,  in  China,  or  in  Russia  or  Japan,  talking  other 

dialects, 
And  it  seems  to  me  if  I  could  know  those  men  I  should  become 

attached  to  them  as  I  do  to  men  in  my  own  lands, 

0  I  know  we  should  be  brethren  and  lovers, 

1  know  I  should  be  happy  with  them. 


CALAMUS.  107 

I   HEAR   IT   WAS    CHARGED   AGAINST   ME. 

I  HEAR  it  was  charged  against  me  that  I  sought  to  destroy  institu 
tions, 

But  really  I  am  neither  for  nor  against  institutions, 

(What  indeed  have  I  in  common  with  them?  or  what  with  the 
destruction  of  them?) 

Only  I  will  establish  in  the  Mannahatta  and  in  every  city  of  these 
States  inland  and  seaboard, 

And  in  the  fields  and  woods,  and  above  every  keel  little  or  large 
that  dents  the  water, 

Without  edifices  or  rules  or  trustees  or  any  argument, 

The  institution  of  the  dear  love  of  comrades. 


THE   PRAIRIE-GRASS    DIVIDING. 

THE  prairie-grass  dividing,  its  special  odor  breathing, 

I  demand  of  it  the  spiritual  corresponding, 

Demand  the  most  copious  and  close  companionship  of  men, 

Demand  the  blades  to  rise  of  words,  acts,  beings, 

Those  of  the  open  atmosphere,  coarse,  sunlit,  fresh,  nutritious, 

Those  that  go  their  own  gait,  erect,  stepping  with  freedom  and 

command,  leading  not  following, 
Those  with  a  never-quell'd  audacity,  those  with  sweet  and  lusty 

flesh  clear  of  taint, 
Those  that  look  carelessly  in  the  faces  of  Presidents  and  governors, 

as  to  say  Who  are  you  ? 
Those   of  earth-born   passion,   simple,   never   constrain'd,  never 

obedient, 
Those  of  inland  America. 


WHEN   I   PERUSE   THE   CONQUER'D   FAME. 

WHEN  I  peruse  the  conquer'd  fame  of  heroes  and  the  victories 

of  mighty  generals,  I  do  not  envy  the  generals, 
Nor  the  President  in  his  Presidency,  nor  the  rich  in  his  great 

house, 
But  when  I  hear  of  the  brotherhood  of  lovers,  how  it  was  with 

them, 
How  together  through  life,  through  dangers,  odium,  unchanging, 

long  and  long, 
Through  youth  and  through  middle  and  old  age,  how  unfaltering, 

how  affectionate  and  faithful  they  were, 
Then  I  am  pensive  —  I  hastily  walk  away  fill'd  with  the  bitterest 

envy. 
8 


IO8  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


WE   TWO   BOYS   TOGETHER   CLINGING. 

WE  two  boys  together  clinging, 

One  the  other  never  leaving, 

Up  and  down  the  roads  going,  North  and  South  excursions 
making, 

Power  enjoying,  elbows  stretching,  fingers  clutching, 

Arm'd  and  fearless,  eating,  drinking,  sleeping,  loving, 

No  law  less  than  ourselves  owning,  sailing,  soldiering,  thieving, 
threatening, 

Misers,  menials,  priests  alarming,  air  breathing,  water  drinking,  on 
the  turf  or  the  sea-beach  dancing, 

Cities  wrenching,  ease  scorning,  statutes  mocking,  feebleness  chas 
ing, 

Fulfilling  our  foray. 


A   PROMISE   TO   CALIFORNIA. 

A  PROMISE  to  California, 

Or  inland  to  the  great  pastoral  Plains,  and  on  to  Puget  sound  and 

Oregon ; 
Sojourning  east  a  while  longer,  soon  I  travel  toward  you,  to  remain, 

to  teach  robust  American  love, 
For  I  know  very  well  that  I  and  robust  love  belong  among  you, 

inland,  and  along  the  Western  sea ; 
For  these  States  tend  inland  and  toward  the  Western  sea,  and  I 

will  also. 


HERE   THE   FRAILEST   LEAVES   OF   ME. 

HERE  the  frailest  leaves  of  me  and  yet  my  strongest  lasting, 
Here  I  shade  and  hide  my  thoughts,  I  myself  do  not  expose  them. 
And  yet  they  expose  me  more  than  all  my  other  poems. 


NO   LABOR-SAVING   MACHINE. 

No  labor-saving  machine, 

Nor  discovery  have  I  made, 

Nor  will  I  be  able  to  leave  behind  me  any  wealthy  bequest  to 

found  a  hospital  or  library, 

Nor  reminiscence  of  any  deed  of  courage  for  America, 
Nor  literary  success  nor  intellect,  nor  book  for  the  book-shelf, 
But  a  few  carols  vibrating  through  the  air  I  leave, 
For  comrades  and  lovers. 


CALAMUS.  109 

A  GLIMPSE. 

A  GLIMPSE  through  an  interstice  caught, 

Of  a  crowd  of  workmen  and  drivers  in  a  bar-room  around   the 

stove  late  of  a  winter  night,  and  I  unremark'd  seated  in  a 

corner, 
Of  a  youth  who  loves  me  and  whom  I  love,  silently  approaching 

and  seating  himself  near,  that  he  may  hold  me  by  the  hand, 
A  long  while  amid  the  noises  of  coming  and  going,  of  drinking 

and  oath  and  smutty  jest, 
There  we  two,  content,  happy  in  being  together,  speaking  little, 

perhaps  not  a  word. 


A   LEAF   FOR   HAND   IN   HAND. 

A  LEAF  for  hand  in  hand  ; 

You  natural  persons  old  and  young  ! 

You  on  the  Mississippi  and  on  all  the  branches  and  bayous  of  the 

Mississippi ! 

You  friendly  boatmen  and  mechanics  !  you  roughs  ! 
You  twain  !  and  all  processions  moving  along  the  streets  ! 
I  wish  to  infuse  myself  among  you  till  I  see  it  common  for  you  to 

walk  hand  in  hand. 


EARTH,   MY   LIKENESS. 

EARTH,  my  likeness, 

Though  you  look  so  impassive,  ample  and  spheric  there, 
I  now  suspect  that  is  not  all ; 

I  now  suspect  there  is  something  fierce  in  you  eligible  to  burst  forth, 
For  an  athlete  is  enamour'd  of  me,  and  I  of  him, 
But  toward  him  there  is  something  fierce  and  terrible  in  me  eligi 
ble  to  burst  forth, 
I  dare  not  tell  it  in  words,  not  even  in  these  songs. 


I   DREAM'D    IN   A   DREAM. 

I  DREAM'D  in  a  dream  I  saw  a  city  invincible  to  the  attacks  of  the 

whole  of  the  rest  of  the  earth, 
I  dream'd  that  was  the  new  city  of  Friends, 
Nothing  was  greater  there  than  the  quality  of  robust  love,  it  led 

the  rest, 

It  was  seen  every  hour  in  the  actions  of  the  men  of  that  city, 
And  in  all  their  looks  and  words. 


no  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

WHAT  THINK  YOU   I    TAKE   MY   PEN    IN    HAND? 

WHAT  think  you  I  take  my  pen  in  hand  to  record  ? 

The   battle-ship,  perfect-model'd,  majestic,  that   I  saw  pass   the 

offing  to-day  under  full  sail? 
The  splendors  of  the  past  day  ?  or  the  splendor  of  the  night  that 

envelops  me? 
Or  the  vaunted  glory  and  growth  of  the  great  city  spread  around 

me  ?  —  no  ; 
But  merely  of  two  simple  men  I  saw  to-day  on  the  pier  in  the 

midst  of  the  crowd,  parting  the  parting  of  dear  friends, 
The  one  to  remain  hung  on  the  other's   neck  and   passionately 

kiss'd  him, 
While  the  one  to  depart  tightly  prest  the  one  to  remain  in  his 

arms. 


TO   THE   EAST  AND   TO   THE   WEST. 

To  the  East  and  to  the  West, 

To  the  man  of  the  Seaside  State  and  of  Pennsylvania, 

To  the  Kanadian  of  the  north,  to  the  Southerner  I  love, 

These  with  perfect  trust  to  depict  you  as  myself,  the  germs  are  in 

all  men, 
I  believe  the  main  purport  of  these  States  is  to  found  a  superb 

friendship,  exalte,  previously  unknown, 
Because  I  perceive  it  waits,  and  has  been  always  waiting,  latent  in 

all  men. 


SOMETIMES   WITH   ONE   I    LOVE. 

SOMETIMES  with  one  I  love  I  fill  myself  with  rage  for  fear  I  effuse 

unreturn'd  love, 
But  now  I  think  there  is  no  unreturn'd  love,  the  pay  is  certain  one 

way  or  another, 

/    (I  loved  a  certain  person  ardently  and  my  love  was  not  return'd, 
Yet  out  of  that  I  have  written  these  songs.) 


TO  A   WESTERN   BOY. 

MANY  things  to  absorb  I  teach  to  help  you  become  eleve  of  mine ; 

Yet  if  blood  like  mine  circle  not  in  your  veins, 

If  you  be  not  silently  selected  by  lovers  and  do  not  silently  select 

lovers, 
Of  what  use  is  it  that  you  seek  to  become  eleve  of  mine  ? 


CALAMUS.  Ill 

FAST   ANCHOR'D   ETERNAL   O   LOVE! 

FAST-ANCHOR'D  eternal  O  love  !  O  woman  I  love  ! 

0  bride  !  O  wife  !  more  resistless  than  I  can  tell,  the  thought  of 

you  ! 

Then  separate,  as  disembodied  or  another  born, 
Ethereal,  the  last  athletic  reality,  my  consolation, 

1  ascend,  I  float  in  the  regions  of  your  love  O  man, 

0  sharer  of  my  roving  life. 

AMONG   THE   MULTITUDE. 

AMONG  the  men  and  women  the  multitude, 

1  perceive  one  picking  me  out  by  secret  and  divine  signs, 
Acknowledging   none   else,   not   parent,  wife,   husband,   brother, 

child,  any  nearer  than  I  am, 
Some  are  baffled,  but  that  one  is  not  —  that  one  knows  me. 

Ah  lover  and  perfect  equal, 

I  meant  that  you  should  discover  me  so  by  faint  indirections, 

And  I  when  I  meet  you  mean  to  discover  you  by  the  like  in  you. 

O  YOU   WHOM    I    OFTEN   AND   SILENTLY   COME. 

O  YOU  whom  I  often  and  silently  come  where  you  are  that  I  may 
be  with  you, 

As  I  walk  by  your  side  or  sit  near,  or  remain  in  the  same  room 
with  you, 

Little  you  know  the  subtle  electric  fire  that  for  your  sake  is  play 
ing  within  me. 

THAT   SHADOW   MY   LIKENESS. 

THAT  shadow  my  likeness  that  goes  to  and  fro  seeking  a  liveli 
hood,  chattering,  chaffering, 

How  often  I  find  myself  standing  and  looking  at  it  where  it 
flits, 

How  often  I  question  and  doubt  whether  that  is  really  me ; 

But  among  my  lovers  and  caroling  these  songs, 

O  I  never  doubt  whether  that  is  really  me. 

FULL   OF   LIFE   NOW. 

FULL  of  life  now,  compact,  visible, 

I,  forty  years  old  the  eighty-third  year  of  the  States, 


112  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

To  one  a  century  hence  or  any  number  of  centuries  hence, 
To  you  yet  unborn  these,  seeking  you. 

When  you  read  these  I  that  was  visible  am  become  invisible, 
Now  it  is  you,  compact,  visible,  realizing  my  poems,  seeking  me, 
Fancying  how  happy  you  were  if  I  could  be  with  you  and  become 

your  comrade ; 
Be  it  as  if  I  were  with  you.     (Be  not  too  certain  but  I  am  now 

with  you.) 


SALUT  AU  MONDE! 


OTAKE  my  hand  Walt  Whitman  ! 
Such  gliding  wonders  !  such  sights  and  sounds  ! 
Such  join'd  unended  links,  each  hook'd  to  the  next, 
Each  answering  all,  each  sharing  the  earth  with  all. 

What  widens  within  you  Walt  Whitman  ? 

What  waves  and  soils  exuding  ? 

What  climes  ?  what  persons  and  cities  are  here  ? 

Who  are  the  infants,  some  playing,  some  slumbering? 

Who  are  the  girls  ?  who  are  the  married  women  ? 

Who  are  the  groups  of  old  men  going  slowly  with  their  arms  about 

each  other's  necks? 

What  rivers  are  these  ?  what  forests  and  fruits  are  these  ? 
What  are  the  mountains  call'd  that  rise  so  high  in  the  mists  ? 
What  myriads  of  dwellings  are  they  fill'd  with  dwellers? 


Within  me  latitude  widens,  longitude  lengthens, 

Asia,  Africa,  Europe,  are  to  the  east  —  America  is  provided  for  in 

the  west, 

Banding  the  bulge  of  the  earth  winds  the  hot  equator, 
Curiously  north  and  south  turn  the  axis-ends, 
Within  me  is  the  longest  day,  the  sun  wheels  in  slanting  rings,  it 

does  not  set  for  months, 
Stretch'd  in  due  time  within  me  the  midnight  sun  just  rises  above 

the  horizon  and  sinks  again, 

Within  me  zones,  seas,  cataracts,  forests,  volcanoes,  groups, 
Malaysia,  Polynesia,  and  the  great  West  Indian  islands. 


SALUT  A  u  MONDE  /  113 

3 
What  do  you  hear  Walt  Whitman  ? 

I  hear  the  workman  singing  and  the  farmer's  wife  singing, 

I  hear  in  the  distance  the  sounds  of  children  and  of  animals  early 

in  the  day, 

I  hear  emulous  shouts  of  Australians  pursuing  the  wild  horse, 
I  hear  the  Spanish  dance  with  castanets  in  the  chestnut  shade,  to 

the  rebeck  and  guitar, 
I  hear  continual  echoes  from  the  Thames, 
I  hear  fierce  French  liberty  songs, 
I   hear  of  the   Italian  boat-sculler  the  musical  recitative  of  old 

poems, 
I  hear  the  locusts  in  Syria  as  they  strike  the  grain  and  grass  with 

the  showers  of  their  terrible  clouds, 
I  hear  the  Coptic  refrain  toward  sundown,  pensively  falling  on  the 

breast  of  the  black  venerable  vast  mother  the  Nile, 
I  hear  the  chirp  of  the  Mexican  muleteer,  and  the  bells  of  the 

mule, 

I  hear  the  Arab  muezzin  calling  from  the  top  of  the  mosque, 
I  hear  the  Christian  priests  at  the  altars  of  their  churches,  I  hear 

the  responsive  base  and  soprano, 
I  hear  the  cry  of  the  Cossack,  and  the  sailor's  voice  putting  to  sea 

at  Okotsk, 
I  hear  the  wheeze  of  the  slave-coffle  as  the  slaves  march  on,  as 

the  husky  gangs  pass  on  by  twos  and  threes,  fasten'd  together 

with  wrist-chains  and  ankle-chains, 
I  hear  the  Hebrew  reading  his  records  and  psalms, 
I  hear  the  rhythmic  myths  of  the  Greeks,  and  the  strong  legends 

of  the  Romans, 
I  hear  the  tale  of  the  divine  life  and  bloody  death  of  the  beautiful 

God  the  Christ, 
I  hear  the  Hindoo  teaching  his  favorite  pupil  the  loves,  wars. 

adages,  transmitted  safely  to  this  day  from  poets  who  wrote 

three  thousand  years  ago. 


What  do  you  see  Walt  Whitman  ? 

Who  are  they  you  salute,  and  that  one  after  another  salute  you  ? 

I  see  a  great  round  wonder  rolling  through  space, 

I  see  diminute  farms,  hamlets,  ruins,  graveyards,  jails,  factories, 

palaces,  hovels,  huts  of  barbarians,  tents  of  nomads  upon 

the  surface, 


H4  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

I  see  the  shaded  part  on  one  side  where  the  sleepers  are  sleeping, 

and  the  sunlit  part  on  the  other  side, 
I  see  the  curious  rapid  change  of  the  light  and  shade, 
I  see  distant  lands,  as  real  and  near  to  the  inhabitants  of  them  as 

my  land  is  to  me. 

I  see  plenteous  waters, 

I  see  mountain  peaks,  I  see  the  sierras  of  Andes  where  they  range, 

I  see  plainly  the  Himalayas,  Chian  Shahs,  Altays,  Ghauts, 

I  see  the  giant  pinnacles  of  Elbruz,  Kazbek,  Bazardjusi, 

I  see  the  Styrian  Alps,  and  the  Karnac  Alps, 

I  see   the  Pyrenees,  Balks,  Carpathians,  and   to  the  north  the 

Dofrafields,  and  off  at  sea  mount  Hecla, 
I  see  Vesuvius  and  Etna,  the  mountains  of  the  Moon,  and  the 

Red  mountains  of  Madagascar, 
I  see  the  Lybian,  Arabian,  and  Asiatic  deserts, 
I  see  huge  dreadful  Arctic  and  Antarctic  icebergs, 
I  see  the  superior  oceans  and  the  inferior  ones,  the  Atlantic  and 

Pacific,  the  sea  of  Mexico,  the  Brazilian  sea,  and  the  sea 

of  Peru, 

The  waters  of  Hindustan,  the  China  sea,  and  the  gulf  of  Guinea, 
The  Japan  waters,  the  beautiful  bay  of  Nagasaki  land-lock'd  in  its 

mountains, 
The  spread  of  the  Baltic,  Caspian,  Bothnia,  the  British  shores,  and 

the  bay  of  Biscay, 
The  clear-sunn'd  Mediterranean,  and  from  one  to  another  of  its 

islands, 
The  White  sea,  and  the  sea  around  Greenland. 

I  behold  the  mariners  of  the  world, 

Some  are  in  storms,  some  in  the  night  with  the  watch  on  the  lookv 

out. 
Some  drifting  helplessly,  some  with  contagious  diseases. 

I  behold  the  sail  and  steamships  of  the  world,  some  in  clusters  in 

port,  some  on  their  voyages, 
Some  double  the  cape  of  Storms,  some  cape  Verde,  others  capes 

Guardafui,  Bon,  or  Baj adore, 
Others  Dondra  head,  others  pass  the  straits  of  Sunda,  others  cape 

Lopatka,  others  Behring's  straits, 
Others  cape  Horn,  others  sail  the  gulf  of  Mexico  or  along  Cuba 

or  Hayti,  others  Hudson's  bay  or  Baffin's  bay, 
Others  pass  the  straits  of  Dover,  others  enter  the  Wash,  others  the 

firth  of  Solway,  others  round  cape  Clear,  others  the  Land's 

End, 


SALUT  A  u  MONDE  /  115 

Others  traverse  the  Zuyder  Zee  or  the  Scheld, 

Others  as  comers  and  goers  at  Gibraltar  or  the  Dardanelles, 

Others  sternly  push  their  way  through  the  northern  winter-packs, 

Others  descend  or  ascend  the  Obi  or  the  Lena, 

Others  the  Niger  or  the  Congo,  others  the  Indus,  the  Burampooter 

and  Cambodia, 

Others  wait  steam'd  up  ready  to  start  in  the  ports  of  Australia, 
Wait  at  Liverpool,  Glasgow,  Dublin,  Marseilles,  Lisbon,  Naples, 

Hamburg,  Bremen,  Bordeaux,  the  Hague,  Copenhagen, 
Wait  at  Valparaiso,  Rio  Janeiro,  Panama. 

S 

I  see  the  tracks  of  the  railroads  of  the  earth, 
I  see  them  in  Great  Britain,  I  see  them  in  Europe. 
I  see  them  in  Asia  and  in  Africa. 

I  see  the  electric  telegraphs  of  the  earth, 

I  see  the  filaments  of  the  news  of  the  wars,  deaths,  losses,  gains, 
passions,  of  my  race. 

I  see  the  long  river-stripes  of  the  earth, 

I  see  the  Amazon  and  the  Paraguay, 

I  see  the  four  great  rivers  of  China,  the  Amour,  the  Yellow  River, 

the  Yiang-tse,  and  the  Pearl, 
I  see  where  the  Seine  flows,  and  where  the  Danube,  the  Loire,  the 

Rhone,  and  the  Guadalquiver  flow, 
I  see  the  windings  of  the  Volga,  the  Dnieper,  the  Oder, 
I  see  the  Tuscan  going  down  the  Arno,  and  the  Venetian  along 

the  Po, 
J  see  the  Greek  seaman  sailing  out  of  Egina  bay. 

6 

I  see  the  site  of  the  old  empire  of  Assyria,  and  that  of  Persia,  and 

that  of  India, 
I  see  the  falling  of  the  Ganges  over  the  high  rim  of  Saukara. 

I  see  the  place  of  the  idea  of  the  Deity  incarnated  by  avatars  in 

human  forms, 
I  see  the  spots  of  the  successions  of  priests  on  the  earth,  oracles, 

sacrifices,  brahmins,  sabians,  llamas,  monks,  muftis,   ex- 

horters, 
I  see  where  druids  walk'd  the  groves  of  Mona,  I  see  the  mistletoe 

and  vervain, 
I  see  the  temples  of  the  deaths  of  the  bodies  of  Gods,  I  see  the 

old  signifiers. 


Ii6  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


I  see  Christ  eating  the  bread  of  his  last  supper  in  the  midst  of 
youths  and  old  persons, 

I  see  where  the  strong  divine  young  man  the  Hercules  toil'd  faith 
fully  and  long  and  then  died, 

I  see  the  place  of  the  innocent  rich  life  and  hapless  fate  of  the 
beautiful  nocturnal  son,  the  full-limb'd  Bacchus, 

I  see  Kneph,  blooming,  drest  in  blue,  with  the  crown  of  feathers 
on  his  head, 

I  see  Hermes,  unsuspected,  dying,  well-belov'd,  saying  to  the 
people  Do  not  weep  for  me, 

This  is  not  my  true  country,  I  have  lived  banish1  d  from  my  true 
country,  I  now  go  back  there, 

I  return  to  the  celestial  sphere  where  every  one  goes  in  his  turn. 


I  see  the  battle-fields  of  the  earth,  grass  grows  upon  them  and 

blossoms  and  corn, 
I  see  the  tracks  of  ancient  and  modern  expeditions. 

I  see  the  nameless  masonries,  venerable  messages  of  the  unknown 
events,  heroes,  records  of  the  earth. 

I  see  the  places  of  the  sagas, 

I  see  pine-trees  and  fir-trees  torn  by  northern  blasts, 

I  see  granite  bowlders  and  cliffs,  I  see  green  meadows  and  lakes, 

I  see  the  burial-cairns  of  Scandinavian  warriors, 

I  see  them  raised  high  with  stones  by  the  marge  of  restless  oceans, 
that  the  dead  men's  spirits  when  they  wearied  of  their  quiet 
graves  might  rise  up  through  the  mounds  and  gaze  on  the 
tossing  billows,  and  be  refresh'd  by  storms,  immensity, 
liberty,  action. 

I  see  the  steppes  of  Asia, 

I  see  the  tumuli  of  Mongolia,  I  see  the  tents  of  Kalmucks  and 

Baskirs, 

I  see  the  nomadic  tribes  with  herds  of  oxen  and  cows, 
I  see  the  table-lands  notch'd  with  ravines,  I  see  the  jungles  and 

deserts, 
I  see  the  camel,  the  wild  steed,  the  bustard,  the  fat-tail'd  sheep, 

the  antelope,  and  the  burrowing  wolf. 

I  see  the  highlands  of  Abyssinia, 

I  see  flocks  of  goats  feeding,  and  see  the  fig-tree,  tamarind, 

And  see  fields  of  teff-wheat  and  places  of  verdure  and  gold. 


SAL UT  A  u  MONDE  /  117 

I  see  the  Brazilian  vaquero, 

I  see  the  Bolivian  ascending  mount  Sorata, 

I  see  the  Wacho  crossing  the  plains,  I  see  the  incomparable  rider 

of  horses  with  his  lasso  on  his  arm, 
I  see  over  the  pampas  the  pursuit  of  wild  cattle  for  their  hides. 


I  see  the  regions  of  snow  and  ice, 
1  see  the  sharp-eyed  Samoiede  and  the  Finn, 
I  see  the  seal-seeker  in  his  boat  poising  his  lance, 
I  see  the  Siberian  on  his  slight-built  sledge  drawn  by  dogs, 
I  see  the  porpoise-hunters,  I  see  the  whale-crews  of  the  south  Pa 
cific  and  the  north  Atlantic, 

I  see  the  cliffs,  glaciers,  torrents,  valleys,  of  Switzerland  —  I  mark 
the  long  winters  and  the  isolation. 

9 

I  see  the  cities  of  the  earth  and  make  myself  at  random  a  part  of 

them, 

I  am  a  real  Parisian, 

I  am  a  habitan  of  Vienna,  St.  Petersburg,  Berlin,  Constantinople, 
I  am  of  Adelaide,  Sidney,  Melbourne, 
I  am  of  London,  Manchester,  Bristol,  Edinburgh,  Limerick, 
I  am  of  Madrid,  Cadiz,  Barcelona,  Oporto,  Lyons,  Brussels,  Berne, 

Frankfort,  Stuttgart,  Turin,  Florence, 
I  belong  in  Moscow,  Cracow,  Warsaw,  or  northward  in  Christiania 

or  Stockholm,  or  in  Siberian  Irkutsk,  or  in  some  street  in 

Iceland, 
I  descend  upon  all  those  cities,  and  rise  from  them  again. 

10 

I  see  vapors  exhaling  from  unexplored  countries, 
I  see  the  savage  types,  the  bow  and  arrow,  the  poison'd  splint,  the 
fetich,  and  the  obi. 

I  see  African  and  Asiatic  towns, 

I  see  Algiers,  Tripoli,  Derne,  Mogadore,  Timbuctoo,  Monrovia, 
I  see  the  swarms  of  Pekin,  Canton,  Benares,  Delhi,  Calcutta,  Tokio, 
I  see  the  Kruman  in  his  hut,  and  the  Dahoman  and  Ashantee-man 

in  their  huts, 

I  see  the  Turk  smoking  opium  in  Aleppo, 
I  see  the  picturesque  crowds  at  the  fairs  of  Khiva  and  those  of 

Herat, 
I  see  Teheran,  I  see  Muscat  and  Medina  and  the  intervening  sands, 

I  see  the  caravans  toiling  onward, 


Ii8  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

I  see  Egypt  and  the  Egyptians,  I  see  the  pyramids  and  obelisks, 
I  look  on  chisell'd  histories,  records  of  conquering  kings,  dynasties, 

cut  in  slabs  of  sand-stone,  or  on  granite-blocks, 
I  see  at  Memphis  mummy-pits  containing  mummies  embalm'd, 

swathed  in  linen  cloth,  lying  there  many  centuries, 
I  look  on  the  fall'n  Theban,  the  large-ball'd  eyes,  the  side-drooping 

neck,  the  hands  folded  across  the  breast. 

I  see  all  the  menials  of  the  earth,  laboring, 

I  see  all  the  prisoners  in  the  prisons, 

I  see  the  defective  human  bodies  of  the  earth, 

The  blind,  the  deaf  and  dumb,  idiots,  hunchbacks,  lunatics, 

The  pirates,  thieves,  betrayers,  murderers,  slave-makers  of  the  earth, 

The  helpless  infants,  and  the  helpless  old  men  and  women. 

'.  see  male  and  female  everywhere, 

see  the  serene  brotherhood  of  philosophs, 

see  the  constructiveness  of  my  race, 
!  see  the  results  of  the  perseverance  and  industry  of  my  race, 

see  ranks,  colors,  barbarisms,  civilizations,  I  go  among  them,  I 

mix  indiscriminately, 
And  I  salute  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  earth. 

ii 

You  whoever  you  are  ! 

You  daughter  or  son  of  England  ! 

You  of  the  mighty  Slavic  tribes  and  empires  !  you  Russ  in  Russia  ! 

You  dim-descended,  black,  divine-soul'd  African,  large,  fine- 
headed,  nobly-form'd,  superbly  destin'd,  on  equal  terms 
with  me  ! 

You  Norwegian  !  Swede  !  Dane  !  Icelander  !  you  Prussian  ! 

You  Spaniard  of  Spain  !  you  Portuguese  ! 

You  Frenchwoman  and  Frenchman  of  France  ! 

You  Beige  !  you  liberty-lover  of  the  Netherlands  !  (you  stock 
whence  I  myself  have  descended ;) 

You  sturdy  Austrian  !  you  Lombard  !  Hun  !  Bohemian  !  farmer  of 
Styria ! 

You  neighbor  of  the  Danube  ! 

You  working-man  of  the  Rhine,  the  Elbe,  or  the  Weser !  you 
working-woman  too  ! 

You  Sardinian  !  you  Bavarian  !  Swabian  !  Saxon  !  Wallachian ! 
Bulgarian  ! 

You  Roman  !  Neapolitan  !  you  Greek  ! 

You  lithe  matador  in  the  arena  at  Seville  ! 

You  mountaineer  living  lawlessly  on  the  Taurus  or  Caucasus  ! 


SALUT  AU  MONDE/  119 

You  Bokh  horse-herd  watching  your  mares  and  stallions  feeding ! 

You  beautiful-bodied  Persian  at  full  speed  in  the  saddle  shooting 
arrows  to  the  mark  ! 

You  Chinaman  and  Chinawoman  of  China  !  you  Tartar  of  Tartary  ! 

You  women  of  the  earth  subordinated  at  your  tasks  ! 

You  Jew  journeying  in  your  old  age  through  every  risk  to  stand 
once  on  Syrian  ground  ! 

You  other  Jews  waiting  in  all  lands  for  your  Messiah  ! 

You  thoughtful  Armenian  pondering  by  some  stream  of  the  Eu 
phrates  !  you  peering  amid  the  ruins  of  Nineveh  !  you 
ascending  mount  Ararat ! 

You  foot-worn  pilgrim  welcoming  the  far-away  sparkle  of  the 
minarets  of  Mecca ! 

You  sheiks  along  the  stretch  from  Suez  to  Bab-el-mandeb  ruling 
your  families  and  tribes  ! 

You  olive-grower  tending  your  fruit  on  fields  of  Nazareth,  Damas 
cus,  or  lake  Tiberias  ! 

You  Thibet  trader  on  the  wide  inland  or  bargaining  in  the  shops 
of  Lassa ! 

You  Japanese  man  or  woman  !  you  liver  in  Madagascar,  Ceylon. 
Sumatra,  Borneo  ! 

All  you  continentals  of  Asia,  Africa,  Europe,  Australia,  indifferent 
of  place  ! 

All  you  on  the  numberless  islands  of  the  archipelagoes  of  the  sea  ! 

And  you  of  centuries  hence  when  you  listen  to  me  ! 

And  you  each  and  everywhere  whom  I  specify  not,  but  include 
just  the  same  ! 

Health  to  you  !  good  will  to  you  all,  from  me  and  America  sent ! 

Each  of  us  inevitable, 

Each  of  us  limitless  —  each  of  us  with  his  or  her  right  upon  the 

earth, 

Each  of  us  allow'd  the  eternal  purports  of  the  earth, 
Each  of  us  here  as  divinely  as  any  is  here. 

12 

You  Hottentot  with  clicking  palate  !  you  woolly-hair'd  hordes  ! 

You  own'd  persons  dropping  sweat-drops  or  blood-drops  ! 

You  human  forms  with  the  fathomless  ever-impressive  counte 
nances  of  brutes  ! 

You  poor  koboo  whom  the  meanest  of  the  rest  look  down  upon 
for  all  your  glimmering  language  and  spirituality  ! 

You  dwarf 'd  Kamtschatkan,  Greenlander,  Lapp  ! 

You  Austral  negro,  naked,  red,  sooty,  with  protrusive  lip,  groveling, 
seeking  your  food ! 


I2O  LEA  FES  OF  GRASS. 

You  Caffre,  Berber,  Soudanese  ! 

You  haggard,  uncouth,  untutor'd  Bedowee  ! 

You  plague-swarms  in  Madras,  Nankin,  Kaubul,  Cairo  ! 

You  benighted  roamer  of  Amazonia  !  you  Patagonian  !  you  Feejee- 

man ! 

I  do  not  prefer  others  so  very  much  before  you  either, 
I  do  not  say  one  word  against  you,  away  back  there  where  you 

stand, 
(You  will  come  forward  in  due  time  to  my  side.) 

13 

My  spirit  has  pass'd  in  compassion  and  determination  around  the 

whole  earth, 
I  have  look'd  for  equals  and  lovers  and  found  them  ready  for  me 

in  all  lands, 
I  think  some  divine  rapport  has  equalized  me  with  them. 

You  vapors,  I  think  I  have  risen  with  you,  moved  away  to  distant 
continents,  and  fallen  down  there,  for  reasons, 

I  think  I  have  blown  with  you  you  winds ; 

You  waters  I  have  finger'd  every  shore  with  you, 

I  have  run  through  what  any  river  or  strait  of  the  globe  has  run 
through, 

I  have  taken  my  stand  on  the  bases  of  peninsulas  and  on  the  high 
embedded  rocks,  to  cry  thence  : 

Salut  au  monde  f 

What  cities  the  light  or  warmth  penetrates  I  penetrate  those  cities 

myself, 
All  islands  to  which  birds  wing  their  way  I  wing  my  way  myself. 

Toward  you  all,  in  America's  name, 

I  raise  high  the  perpendicular  hand,  I  make  the  signal, 

To  remain  after  me  in  sight  forever, 

For  all  the  haunts  and  homes  of  men. 


SONG  OF  THE  OPEN  ROAD. 


AFOOT  and  light-hearted  I  take  to  the  open  road, 
Healthy,  free,  the  world  before  me, 
The  long  brown  path  before  me  leading  wherever  I  choose. 


SONG  OF  THE  OPEN  ROAD.          121 

Henceforth  I  ask  not  good-fortune,  I  myself  am  good-fortune, 
Henceforth  I  whimper  no  more,  postpone  no  more,  need  nothingf 
Done  with  indoor  complaints,  libraries,  querulous  criticisms, 
Strong  and  content  I  travel  the  open  road. 

The  earth,  that  is  sufficient, 

I  do  not  want  the  constellations  any  nearer, 

I  know  they  are  very  well  where  they  are, 

I  know  they  suffice  for  those  who  belong  to  them. 

(Still  here  I  carry  my  old  delicious  burdens, 

I  carry  them,  men  and  women,  I  carry  them  with  me  wherever  I  go, 

I  swear  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  get  rid  of  them, 

I  am  fill'd  with  them,  and  I  will  fill  them  in  return.) 


You  road  I  enter  upon  and  look  around,  I  believe  you  are  not  all 

that  is  here, 
I  believe  that  much  unseen  is  also  here. 

Here  the  profound  lesson  of  reception,  nor  preference  nor  denial, 
The  black  with  his  woolly  head,  the  felon,  the  diseas'd,  the  illiterate 

person,  are  not  denied  ; 
The  birth,  the  hasting  after  the  physician,  the  beggar's  tramp,  the 

drunkard's  stagger,  the  laughing  party  of  mechanics, 
The  escaped  youth,  the  rich  person's  carriage,  the  fop,  the  eloping 

couple, 
The  early  market-man,  the  hearse,  the  moving  of  furniture  into  the 

town,  the  return  back  from  the  town, 

They  pass,  I  also  pass,  any  thing  passes,  none  can  be  interdicted, 
None  but  are  accepted,  none  but  shall  be  dear  to  me. 


You  air  that  serves  me  with  breath  to  speak  ! 

You  objects  that  call  from  diffusion  my  meanings  and  give  them 

shape  ! 

You  light  that  wraps  me  and  all  things  in  delicate  equable  showers  ! 
You  paths  worn  in  the  irregular  hollows  by  the  roadsides  ! 
I  believe  you  are  latent  with  unseen  existences,  you  are  so  dear 

to  me. 

You  flagg'd  walks  of  the  cities  !  you  strong  curbs  at  the  edges  ! 
You  ferries  !  you  planks  and  posts  of  wharves  !  you  timber-lined 
sides  !  you  distant  ships  ! 


122  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

You  rows  of  houses  !  you  window-pierc'd  facades  !  you  roofs  ! 
You  porches  and  entrances  !  you  copings  and  iron  guards  ! 
You  windows  whose  transparent  shells  might  expose  so  much  ! 
You  doors  and  ascending  steps  !  you  arches  ! 
You  gray  stones  of  interminable  pavements  !  you  trodden  crossings  1 
From  all  that  has  touch'd  you  I  believe  you  have  imparted   to 

yourselves,  and  now  would  impart  the  same  secretly  to  me, 
From  the  living  and  the  dead  you  have  peopled  your  impassive 

surfaces,  and   the   spirits   thereof  would   be   evident  and 

amicable  with  me. 

4 

The  earth  expanding  right  hand  and  left  hand, 

The  picture  alive,  every  part  in  its  best  light, 

The  music  falling  in  where  it  is  wanted,  and  stopping  where  it  is 

not  wanted, 
The  cheerful  voice  of  the  public  road,  the  gay  fresh  sentiment  of 

the  road. 

O  highway  I  travel,  do  you  say  to  me  Do  not  leave  me  ? 
Do  you  say  Venture  not — if  you  leave  me  you  are  lost? 
Do  you  say  /  am  already  prepared,  I  am  well-beaten  and  un 
dented,  adhere  to  me? 

0  public  road,  I  say  back  I  am  not  afraid  to  leave  you,  yet  I  love 

you, 

You  express  me  better  than  I  can  express  myself, 
You  shall  be  more  to  me  than  my  poem. 

1  think  heroic  deeds  were  all  conceiv'd  in  the  open  air,  and  all 

free  poems  also, 

I  think  I  could  stop  here  myself  and  do  miracles, 

I  think  whatever  I  shall  meet  on  the  road  I  shall  like,  and  who 
ever  beholds  me  shall  like  me, 

I  think  whoever  I  see  must  be  happy. 

5 

From  this  hour  I  ordain  myself  loos'd  of  limits  and  imaginary 

lines, 

Going  where  I  list,  my  own  master  total  and  absolute, 
Listening  to  others,  considering  well  what  they  say, 
Pausing,  searching,  receiving,  contemplating, 
Gently,  but  with  undeniable  will,  divesting  myself  of  the   holds 

that  would  hold  me. 


SONG  OF  THE  OPEN  ROAD.          12$ 

I  inhale  great  draughts  of  space, 

The  east  and  the  west  are  mine,  and  the  north  and  the  south  are 
mine. 

I  am  larger,  better  than  I  thought, 

I  did  not  know  I  held  so  much  goodness. 

All  seems  beautiful  to  me, 

I  can  repeat  over  to  men  and  women  You  have  done  such  good 

to  me  I  would  do  the  same  to  you, 
I  will  recruit  for  myself  and  you  as  I  go, 
I  will  scatter  myself  among  men  and  women  as  I  go, 
I  will  toss  a  new  gladness  and  roughness  among  them, 
Whoever  denies  me  it  shall  not  trouble  me, 
Whoever  accepts  me  he  or  she  shall  be  blessed  and  shall  bless  me. l 

6 

Now  if  a  thousand  perfect  men  were  to  appear  it  would  not  amaze 

me, 
Now  if  a  thousand  beautiful  forms  of  women  appear'd  it  would 

not  astonish  me. 

Now  I  see  the  secret  of  the  making  of  the  best  persons, 

It  is  to  grow  in  the  open  air  and  to  eat  arid  sleep  with  the  earth. 

Here  a  great  personal  deed  has  room, 

(Such  a  deed  seizes  upon  the  hearts  of  the  whole  race  of  men, 
Its  effusion  of  strength  and  will  overwhelms  law  and  mocks   all 
authority  and  all  argument  against  it.) 

Here  is  the  test  of  wisdom, 

Wisdom  is  not  finally  tested  in  schools, 

Wisdom   cannot   be   pass'd   from   one   having  it  to  another  not 

having  it, 

Wisdom  is  of  the  soul,  is  not  susceptible  of  proof,  is  its  own  proof, 
Applies  to  all  stages  and  objects  and  qualities  and  is  content, 
Is  the  certainty  of  the  reality  and  immortality  of  things,  and  the 

excellence  of  things ; 
Something  there  is  in  the  float  of  the  sight  of  things  that  provokes 

it  out  of  the  soul. 

Now  I  re-examine  philosophies  and  religions, 

They  may  prove  well  in  lecture-rooms,  yet  not  prove  at  all  under 

the  spacious  clouds  and  along  the  landscape  and  flowing 

currents. 
9 


124  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Here  is  realization, 

Here  is  a  man  tallied  —  he  realizes  here  what  he  has  in  him, 
The  past,  the  future,  majesty,  love  —  if  they  are  vacant  of  you, 
you  are  vacant  of  them. 

Only  the  kernel  of  every  object  nourishes ; 

Where  is  he  who  tears  off  the  husks  for  you  and  me  ? 

Where  is  he  that  undoes  stratagems  and  envelopes  for  you  and  me  ? 

Here  is  adhesiveness,  it  is  not  previously  fashion'd,  it  is  apropos ; 
Do  you  know  what  it  is  as  you  pass  to  be  loved  by  strangers  ? 
Do  you  know  the  talk  of  those  turning  eye-balls  ? 


Here  is  the  efflux  of  the  soul, 

The  efflux  of  the  soul   comes   from  within   through   embower'd 

gates,  ever  provoking  questions, 
These  yearnings  why  are  they?  these  thoughts  in   the    darkness 

why  are  they  ? 
Why  are  there  men  and  women  that  while  they  are  nigh  me  the 

sunlight  expands  my  blood  ? 

Why  when  they  leave  me  do  my  pennants  of  joy  sink  flat  and  lank? 
Why  are  there  trees  I  never  walk  under  but  large  and  melodious 

thoughts  descend  upon  me  ? 
(I  think  they  hang  there  winter  and  summer  on  those  trees  and 

always  drop  fruit  as  I  pass ;) 

What  is  it  I  interchange  so  suddenly  with  strangers  ? 
What  with  some  driver  as  I  ride  on  the  seat  by  his  side  ? 
What  with  some  fisherman  drawing  his  seine  by  the  shore  as  I 

walk  by  and  pause  ? 
What  gives   me  to  be  free  to  a  woman's  and  man's  good-will? 

what  gives  them  to  be  free  to  mine  ? 

8 

The  efflux  of  the  soul  is  happiness,  here  is  happiness, 
I  think  it  pervades  the  open  air,  waiting  at  all  times, 
Now  it  flows  unto  us,  we  are  rightly  charged. 

Here  rises  the  fluid  and  attaching  character, 

The  fluid  and  attaching  character  is  the  freshness  and  sweetness 

of  man  and  woman, 
(The  herbs  of  the  morning  sprout  no  fresher  and  sweeter  every 

day  out  of  the  roots  of  themselves,  than  it  sprouts  fresh 

and  sweet  continually  out  of  itself.) 


SONG  OF  THE  OPEN  ROAD.          125 

Toward  the  fluid  and  attaching  character  exudes  the  sweat  of  the 

love  of  young  and  old, 

From  it  falls  distill'd  the  charm  that  mocks  beauty  and  attainments, 
Toward  it  heaves  the  shuddering  longing  ache  of  contact. 

9 

Aliens  !  whoever  you  are  come  travel  with  me  ! 
Traveling  with  me  you  find  what  never  tires. 

The  earth  never  tires, 

The  earth  is  rude,  silent,  incomprehensible  at  first,  Nature  is  rude 

and  incomprehensible  at  first, 

Be  not  discouraged,  keep  on,  there  are  divine  things  well  envelop'd, 
I  swear  to  you  there  are  divine  things  more  beautiful  than  words 

can  tell. 

Allons  !  we  must  not  stop  here, 

However  sweet  these  laid-up  stores,  however  convenient  this  dwell 
ing  we  cannot  remain  here, 

However  shelter'd  this  port  and  however  calm  these  waters  we 
must  not  anchor  here. 

However  welcome  the  hospitality  that  surrounds  us  we  are  per 
mitted  to  receive  it  but  a  little  while. 


Allons  !  the  inducements  shall  be  greater, 
We  will  sail  pathless  and  wild  seas, 

We  will  go  where  winds  blow,  waves  dash,  and  the  Yankee  clipper 
speeds  by  under  full  sail. 

Allons  !  with  power,  liberty,  the  earth,  the  elements, 
Health,  defiance,  gayety,  self-esteem,  curiosity ; 
Allons  !  from  all  formules  ! 
From  your  formules,  O  bat-eyed  and  materialistic  priests. 

The  stale  cadaver  blocks  up  the  passage  —  the  burial  waits  no 
longer. 

Allons  !  yet  take  warning  ! 

He  traveling  with  me  needs  the  best  blood,  thews,  endurance, 
None  may  come  to  the  trial  till  he  or  she  bring  courage  and  health, 
Come  not  here  if  you  have  already  spent  the  best  of  yourself, 
Only  those  may  come  who  come  in  sweet  and  determin'd  bodies, 
No  diseas'd  person,  no  rum-drinker  or  venereal  taint  is  permitted 
here. 


126  LEAVES   OF   GRASS. 


(I  and  mine  do  not  convince  by  arguments,  similes,  rhymes, 
We  convince  by  our  presence.) 

ii 

Listen  !  I  will  be  honest  with  you, 

I  do  not  offer  the  old  smooth  prizes,  but  offer  rough  new  prizes, 

These  are  the  days  that  must  happen  to  you : 

You  shall  not  heap  up  what  is  call'd  riches, 

You  shall  scatter  with  lavish  hand  all  that  you  earn  or  achieve, 

You  but  arrive  at  the  city  to  which  you  were  destin'd,  you  hardly 

settle  yourself  to  satisfaction  before  you  are  call'd  by  an 

irresistible  call  to  depart, 
You  shall  be  treated  to  the  ironical  smiles  and  mockings  of  those 

who  remain  behind  you, 
What  beckonings  of  love  you  receive  you  shall  only  answer  with 

passionate  kisses  of  parting, 
You  shall  not  allow  the  hold  of  those  who  spread  their  reach'd 

hands  toward  you. 

12 

Allons  !  after  the  great  Companions,  and  to  belong  to  them  ! 
They  too  are  on  the  road — they  are  the  swift  and  majestic  men — 

they  are  the  greatest  women, 
Enjoyers  of  calms  of  seas  and  storms  of  seas, 
Sailors  of  many  a  ship,  walkers  of  many  a  mile  of  land, 
Habitues  of  many  distant  countries,  habitues  of  far-distant  dwellings, 
Trusters  of  men  and  women,  observers  of  cities,  solitary  toilers, 
Pausers  and  contemplators  of  tufts,  blossoms,  shells  of  the  shore, 
Dancers  at  wedding-dances,  kissers  of  brides,  tender  helpers  of 

children,  bearers  of  children, 
Soldiers  of  revolts,  standers  by  gaping  graves,  lowerers-down  of 

coffins, 
Journey ers  over  consecutive  seasons,  over  the  years,  the  curious 

years  each  emerging  from  that  which  preceded  it, 
Journeyers  as  with  companions,  namely  their  own  diverse  phases, 
Forth-steppers  from  the  latent  unrealized  baby-days, 
Journeyers   gayly  with   their  own   youth,  Journeyers   with   their 

bearded  and  well-grain'd  manhood, 

Journeyers  with  their  womanhood,  ample,  unsurpass'd,  content, 
Journeyers  with  their  own  sublime  old  age  of  manhood  or  woman 
hood, 
Old  age,  calm,  expanded,  broad  with  the  haughty  breadth  of  the 

universe, 
Old  age,  flowing  free  with  the  delicious  near-by  freedom  of  death. 


SONG  OF  THE  OPEN  ROAD.          12J 

'3 

Aliens  !  to  that  which  is  endless  as  it  was  beginningless, 

To  undergo  much,  tramps  of  days,  rests  of  nights, 

To  merge  all  in  the  travel  they  tend  to,  and  the  days  and  nights 

they  tend  to, 

Again  to  merge  them  in  the  start  of  superior  journeys, 
To  see  nothing  anywhere  but  what  you  may  reach  it  and  pass  it, 
To  conceive  no  time,  however  distant,  but  what  you  may  reach  it 

and  pass  it, 
To  look  up  or  down  no  road  but  it  stretches  and  waits  for  you, 

however  long  but  it  stretches  and  waits  for  you, 
To  see  no  being,  not  God's  or  any,  but  you  also  go  thither, 
To  see  no  possession  but  you  may  possess  it,  enjoying  all  without 

labor  or  purchase,  abstracting  the  feast  yet  not  abstracting 

one  particle  of  it, 
To  take  the  best  of  the  farmer's  farm  and  the  rich  man's  elegant 

villa,  and  the  chaste  blessings  of  the  well-married  couple, 

and  the  fruits  of  orchards  and  flowers  of  gardens, 
To  take  to  your  use  out  of  the  compact  cities  as  you  pass  through, 
To  carry  buildings  and  streets  with  you  afterward  wherever  you  go, 
To  gather  the  minds  of  men  out  of  their  brains  as  you  encounter 

them,  to  gather  the  love  out  of  their  hearts, 
To  take  your  lovers  on  the  road  with  you,  for  all  that  you  leave 

them  behind  you, 
To  know  the  universe  itself  as  a  road,  as  many  roads,  as  roads  for 

traveling  souls. 

All  parts  away  for  the  progress  of  souls, 

All  religion,  all  solid  things,  arts,  governments — all  that  was  or  is 
apparent  upon  this  globe  or  any  globe,  falls  into  niches  and 
corners  before  the  procession  of  souls  along  the  grand  roads 
of  the  universe. 

Of  the  progress  of  the  souls  of  men  and  women  along  the  grand 
roads  of  the  universe,  all  other  progress  is  the  needed 
emblem  and  sustenance. 

Forever  alive,  forever  forward, 

Stately,  solemn,  sad,  withdrawn,  baffled,  mad,  turbulent,  feeble, 

dissatisfied, 

Desperate,  proud,  fond,  sick,  accepted  by  men,  rejected  by  men, 
They  go  !  they  go  !  I  know  that  they  go,  but  I  know  not  where 

they  go, 
But  I  know  that  they  go  toward   the   best  —  toward   something 

great. 


128  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


Whoever  you  are,  come  forth  !  or  man  or  woman  come  forth  ! 
You    must   not   stay  sleeping   and   dallying   there    in  the  house, 
though  you  built  it,  or  though  it  has  been  built  for  you. 

Out  of  the  dark  confinement  !  out  from  behind  the  screen  ! 
It  is  useless  to  protest,  I  know  all  and  expose  it. 

Behold  through  you  as  bad  as  the  rest, 

Through  the  laughter,  dancing,  dining,  supping,  of  people, 

Inside   of  dresses   and   ornaments,  inside   of  those  wash'd   and 

trimm'd  faces, 
Behold  a  secret  silent  loathing  and  despair. 

No  husband,  no  wife,  no  friend,  trusted  to  hear  the  confession, 
Another  self,  a  duplicate  of  every  one,  skulking  and  hiding  it  goes, 
Formless  and  wordless  through  the  streets  of  the  cities,  polite  and 

bland  in  the  parlors, 

In  the  cars  of  railroads,  in  steamboats,  in  the  public  assembly, 
Home  to  the  houses  of  men  and  women,  at  the  table,  in  the  bed 

room,  everywhere, 
Smartly  attired,  countenance  smiling,  form  upright,  death  under 

the  breast-bones,  hell  under  the  skull-bones, 
Under  the  broadcloth  and  gloves,  under  the  ribbons  and  artificial 

flowers, 

Keeping  fair  with  the  customs,  speaking  not  a  syllable  of  itself, 
Speaking  of  any  thing  else  but  never  of  itself. 


Allons  !  through  struggles  and  wars  ! 

The  goal  that  was  named  cannot  be  countermanded. 

Have  the  past  struggles  succeeded? 

What  has  succeeded  ?  yourself  ?  your  nation  ?  Nature  ? 
|  Now  understand  me  well  —  it  is  provided  in  the  essence  of  things 
that  from  any  fruition    of  success,  no    matter  what,  shall 
come  forth  something  to  make  a  greater  struggle  necessary. 

My  call  is  the  call  of  battle,  I  nourish  active  rebellion, 
He  going  with  me  must  go  well  arm'd, 

He  going  with   me   goes   often  with   spare   diet,  poverty,  angry 
enemies,  desertions. 

'5 

Allons  !  the  road  is  before  us  ! 

It  is  safe  —  I  have  tried  it  —  my  own  feet  have  tried  it  well  —  be 
not  detain'd  ! 


CROSSING  BROOKLYN  FERRY.  129 

Let  the  paper  remain  on  the  desk  unwritten,  and  the  book  on  the 

shelf  unopen'd  ! 
Let  the   tools  remain   in   the  workshop  !  let  the   money  remain 

unearn'd  ! 

Let  the  school  stand  !  mind  not  the  cry  of  the  teacher  ! 
Let  the  preacher  preach  in  his  pulpit !  let  the  lawyer  plead  in  the 

court,  and  the  judge  expound  the  law. 

Camerado,  I  give  you  my  hand  ! 

I  give  you  my  love  more  precious  than  money, 

I  give  you  myself  before  preaching  or  law ; 

Will  you  give  me  yourself  ?  will  you  come  travel  with  me  ? 

Shall  we  stick  by  each  other  as  long  as  we  live  ? 


CROSSING  BROOKLYN  FERRY. 


T^LOOD-TIDE  below  me !  I  see  you  face  to  face ! 
A      Clouds  of  the  west  —  sun  there  half  an  hour  high  —  I  see 
you  also  face  to  face. 

Crowds  of  men  and  women  attired  in  the  usual  costumes,  how 
curious  you  are  to  me  ! 

On  the  ferry-boats  the  hundreds  and  hundreds  that  cross,  return 
ing  home,  are  more  curious  to  me  than  you  suppose, 

And  you  that  shall  cross  from  shore  to  shore  years  hence  are 
more  to  me,  and  more  in  my  meditations,  than  you  might 
suppose. 

2 

The  impalpable  sustenance  of  me  from  all  things  at  all  hours  of 

the  day, 
The   simple,  compact,  well-join'd   scheme,  myself  disintegrated, 

every  one  disintegrated  yet  part  of  the  scheme, 
The  similitudes  of  the  past  and  those  of  the  future, 
The  glories  strung  like  beads  on  my  smallest  sights  and  hearings, 

on  the  walk  in  the  street  and  the  passage  over  the  river, 
The  current  rushing  so  swiftly  and  swimming  with  me  far  away, 
The  others  that  are  to  follow  me,  the  ties  between  me  and  them, 
The  certainty  of  others,  the  life,  love,  sight,  hearing  of  others. 

Others  will  enter  the  gates  of  the  ferry  and  cross  from  shore  to 
shore, 


130  LEA  YES  OF  GRASS. 

Others  will  watch  the  run  of  the  flood-tide, 

Others  will  see  the  shipping  of  Manhattan  north  and  west,  and 
the  heights  of  Brooklyn  to  the  south  and  east, 

Others  will  see  the  islands  large  and  small ; 

Fifty  years  hence,  others  will  see  them  as  they  cross,  the  sun  half 
an  hour  high, 

A  hundred  years  hence,  or  ever  so  many  hundred  years  hence, 
others  will  see  them, 

Will  enjoy  the  sunset,  the  pouring-in  of  the  flood-tide,  the  falling- 
back  to  the  sea  of  the  ebb-tide. 

3 

It  avails  not,  time  nor  place  —  distance  avails  not, 
I  am  with  you,  you  men  and  women  of  a  generation,  or  ever  so 

many  generations  hence, 

Just  as  you  feel  when  you  look  on  the  river  and  sky,  so  I  felt, 
Just  as  any  of  you  is  one  of  a  living  crowd,  I  was  one  of  a  crowd, 
Just  as  you  are  refresh'd  by  the  gladness  of  the  river  and   the 

bright  flow,  I  was  refresh'd, 
Just  as  you  stand  and  lean  on  the  rail,  yet  hurry  with  the  swift 

current,  I  stood  yet  was  hurried, 
Just  as  you  look  on  the  numberless  masts  of  ships  and  the  thick- 

stemm'd  pipes  of  steamboats,  I  look'd. 

I  too  many  and  many. a  time  cross'd  the  river  of  old, 

Watched  the  Twelfth-month  sea-gulls,  saw  them  high  in  the  air 

floating  with  motionless  wings,  oscillating  their  bodies, 
Saw  how  the  glistening  yellow  lit  up  parts  of  their  bodies  and  left 

the  rest  in  strong  shadow, 
Saw  the  slow-wheeling  circles  and  the  gradual  edging  toward  the 

south, 

Saw  the  reflection  of  the  summer  sky  in  the  water, 
Had  my  eyes  dazzled  by  the  shimmering  track  of  beams, 
Look'd  at  the  fine  centrifugal  spokes  of  light  round  the  shape  of 

my  head  in  the  sunlit  water, 

Look'd  on  the  haze  on  the  hills  southward  and  south-westward, 
Look'd  on  the  vapor  as  it  flew  in  fleeces  tinged  with  violet, 
Look'd  toward  the  lower  bay  to  notice  the  vessels  arriving, 
Saw  their  approach,  saw  aboard  those  that  were  near  me, 
Saw  the  white  sails  of  schooners  and  sloops,  saw  the  ships  at  anchor, 
The  sailors  at  work  in  the  rigging  or  out  astride  the  spars, 
The  round  masts,  the  swinging  motion  of  the  hulls,  the  slender 

serpentine  pennants, 

The  large  and  small  steamers  in  motion,  the  pilots  in  their  pilot 
houses, 


CROSSING  BROOKLYN  FERRY.  131 

The  white  wake  left  by  the  passage,  the  quick  tremulous  whirl  of 

the  wheels, 

The  flags  of  all  nations,  the  falling  of  them  at  sunset, 
The  scallop-edged  waves  in  the   twilight,  the   ladled   cups,  the 

frolicsome  crests  and  glistening, 
The  stretch  afar  growing  dimmer  and  dimmer,  the  gray  walls  of 

the  granite  storehouses  by  the  docks, 
On  the  river  the  shadowy  group,  the  big  steam-tug  closely  flank'd 

on  each  side   by  the   barges,   the   hay-boat,  the  belated 

lighter, 
On  the  neighboring  shore  the  fires  from  the  foundry  chimneys 

burning  high  and  glaringly  into  the  night, 
Casting  their  flicker  of  black  contrasted  with  wild  red  and  yellow 

light  over  the  tops  of  houses,  and  down  into  the  clefts  of 

streets. 

4 

These  and  all  else  were  to  me  the  same  as  they  are  to  you, 
I  loved  well  those  cities,  loved  well  the  stately  and  rapid  river, 
The  men  and  women  I  saw  were  all  near  to  me, 
Others  the  same  —  others  who  look  back  on  me  because  I  look'd 

forward  to  them, 
(The  time  will  come,  though  I  stop  here  to-day  and  to-night.) 

S 

What  is  it  then  between  us  ? 
What  is  the  count  of  the  scores  or  hundreds  of  years  between  us  ? 

Whatever  it  is,  it  avails  not  —  distance  avails  not,  and  place  avails 

not, 

I  too  lived,  Brooklyn  of  ample  hills  was  mine, 
I  too  walk'd  the  streets  of  Manhattan  island,  and  bathed  in  the 

waters  around  it, 

I  too  felt  the  curious  abrupt  questionings  stir  within  me, 
In  the  day  among  crowds  of  people  sometimes  they  came  upon  me, 
In  my  walks  home  late  at  night  or  as  I  lay  in  my  bed  they  came 

upon  me, 

I  too  had  been  struck  from  the  float  forever  held  in  solution, 
I  too  had  received  identity  by  my  body, 
That  I  was  I  knew  was  of  my  body,  and  what  I  should  be  I  knew 

I  should  be  of  my  body. 

6 

It  is  not  upon  you  alone  the  dark  patches  fall, 
The  dark  threw  its  patches  down  upon  me  also, 


132  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

The  best  I  had  done  seem'd  to  me  blank  and  suspicious, 

My  great  thoughts  as  I  supposed  them,  were  they  not  in  reality 

meagre  ? 

Nor  is  it  you  alone  who  know  what  it  is  to  be  evil, 
I  am  he  who  knew  what  it  was  to  be  evil, 
I  too  knitted  the  old  knot  of  contrariety, 
Blabb'd,  blush'd,  resented,  lied,  stole,  grudg'd, 
Had  guile,  anger,  lust,  hot  wishes  I  dared  not  speak, 
Was  wayward,  vain,  greedy,  shallow,  sly,  cowardly,  malignant, 
The  wolf,  the  snake,  the  hog,  not  wanting  in  me, 
The  cheating  look,  the  frivolous  word,  the  adulterous  wish,  not 

wanting, 
Refusals,  hates,  postponements,  meanness,  laziness,  none  of  these 

wanting, 

Was  one  with  the  rest,  the  days  and  haps  of  the  rest, 
Was  call'd  by  my  nighest  name  by  clear  loud  voices  of  young  men 

as  they  saw  me  approaching  or  passing, 
Felt  their  arms  on  my  neck  as  I  stood,  or  the  negligent  leaning  of 

their  flesh  against  me  as  I  sat, 
Saw  many  I  loved  in  the  street  or  ferry-boat  or  public  assembly, 

yet  never  told  them  a  word, 
Lived  the  same  life  with  the  rest,  the  same  old  laughing,  gnawing, 

sleeping, 

Play'd  the  part  that  still  looks  back  on  the  actor  or  actress, 
The  same  old  role,  the  role  that  is  what  we  make  it,  as  great  as  we 

like, 
Or  as  small  as  we  like,  or  both  great  and  small. 

Closer  yet  I  approach  you, 

What  thought  you  have  of  me  now,  I  had  as  much  of  you  —  I  laid 

in  my  stores  in  advance, 
I  consider'd  long  and  seriously  of  you  before  you  were  born. 

Who  was  to  know  what  should  come  home  to  me  ? 
Who  knows  but  I  am  enjoying  this? 

Who  knows,  for  all  the  distance,  but  I  am  as  good  as  looking  at 
you  now,  for  all  you  cannot  see  me  ? 

8 

Ah,  what  can  ever  be  more  stately  and  admirable  to  me  than  mast- 

hemm'd  Manhattan? 

River  and  sunset  and  scallop-edg'd  waves  of  flood-tide  ? 
The  sea-gulls  oscillating  their  bodies,  the  hay-boat  in  the  twilight, 

and  the  belated  lighter  ? 


CROSSING  BROOKLYN  FERRY.  135 

What  gods  can  exceed  these  that  clasp  me  by  the  hand,  and  with 
voices  I  love  call  me  promptly  and  loudly  by  my  nighest 
name  as  I  approach? 

What  is  more  subtle  than  this  which  ties  me  to  the  woman  or  maj 
that  looks  in  my  face  ? 

Which  fuses  me  into  you  now,  and  pours  my  meaning  into  you? 

We  understand  then  do  we  not? 

What  I  promis'd  without  mentioning  it,  have  you  not  accepted? 
What  the  study  could  not  teach  —  what  the  preaching  could  not 
accomplish  is  accomplish'd,  is  it  not  ? 

9 

Flow  on,  river  !  flow  with  the  flood-tide,  and  ebb  with  the  ebb 
tide  ! 

Frolic  on,  crested  and  scallop-edg'd  waves  ! 
Gorgeous  clouds  of  the  sunset !  drench  with  your  splendor  me,  or 

the  men  and  women  generations  after  me  ! 
Cross  from  shore  to  shore,  countless  crowds  of  passengers  ! 
Stand  up,  tall  masts  of  Mannahatta  !  stand  up,  beautiful  hills  of 

Brooklyn  ! 

Throb,  baffled  and  curious  brain  !  throw  out  questions  and  answers  ! 
Suspend  here  and  everywhere,  eternal  float  of  solution  ! 
Craze,  loving  and  thirsting  eyes,  in  the  house  or  street  or  public 

assembly  ! 
Sound  out,  voices  of  young  men  !  loudly  and  musically  call  me  by 

my  nighest  name  ! 

Live,  old  life  !  play  the  part  that  looks  back  on  the  actor  or  actress  ! 
Play  the  old  role,  the  role  that  is  great  or  small  according  as  one 

makes  it ! 
Consider,  you  who  peruse  me,  whether  I  may  not  in  unknown 

ways  be  looking  upon  you  ; 
Be  firm,  rail  over  the  river,  to  support  those  who  lean  idly,  yet 

haste  with  the  hasting  current ; 
Fly  on,  sea-birds  !  fly  sideways,  or  wheel  in  large  circles  high  in 

the  air ; 
Receive  the  summer  sky,  you  water,  and  faithfully  hold  it  till  all 

downcast  eyes  have  time  to  take  it  from  you  ! 
Diverge,  fine  spokes  of  light,  from  the  shape  of  my  head,  or  any 

one's  head,  in  the  sunlit  water ! 
Come  on,  ships  from  the  lower  bay  !  pass  up  or  down,  white-sail'd 

schooners,  sloops,  lighters  ! 

Flaunt  away,  flags  of  all  nations  !  be  duly  lower'd  at  sunset ! 
Burn  high  your  fires,  foundry  chimneys  !  cast  black  shadows  at 

nightfall !  cast  red  and  yellow  light  over  the  tops  of  the 

houses  ! 


134  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Appearances,  now  or  henceforth,  indicate  what  you  are, 

You  necessary  film,  continue  to  envelop  the  soul, 

About  my  body  for  me,  and  your  body  for  you,  be  hung  oui 

divinest  aromas, 
Thrive,  cities  —  bring  your  freight,  bring  your  shows,  ample  and 

sufficient  rivers, 

Expand,  being  than  which  none  else  is  perhaps  more  spiritual, 
Keep  your  places,  objects  than  which  none  else  is  more  lasting. 

You  have  waited,  you  always  wait,  you  dumb,  beautiful  ministers, 

We  receive  you  with  free  sense  at  last,  and  are  insatiate  hence 
forward, 

Not  you  any  more  shall  be  able  to  foil  us,  or  withhold  yourselves 
from  us, 

We  use  you,  and  do  not  cast  you  aside  —  we  plant  you  perma 
nently  within  us, 

We  fathom  you  not  —  we  love  you  —  there  is  perfection  in  you  also, 

You  furnish  your  parts  toward  eternity, 

Great  or  small,  you  furnish  your  parts  toward  the  soul. 


SONG  OF  THE  ANSWERER. 

i 

NOW  list  to  my  morning's  romanza,  I  tell  the  signs  of  the 
Answerer, 

To  the  cities  and  farms  I  sing  as  they  spread  in  the  sunshine 
before  me. 

A  young  man  comes  to  me  bearing  a  message  from  his  brother, 
How  shall  the  young  man  know  the  whether  and  when  of  his 

brother? 
Tell  him  to  send  me  the  signs. 

And  I  stand  before  the  young  man  face  to  face,  and  take  his  right 
hand  in  my  left  hand  and  his  left  hand  in  my  right  hand, 

And  I  answer  for  his  brother  and  for  men,  and  I  answer  for  him 
that  answers  for  all,  and  send  these  signs. 

Him  all  wait  for,  him  all  yield  up  to,  his  word  is  decisive  and  final, 
Him  they  accept,  in  him  lave,  in  him  perceive  themselves  as  amid 

light, 
Him  they  immerse  and  he  immerses  them. 


SONG  OF  THE  ANSWERER.  135 

Beautiful   women,   the   haughtiest  nations,   laws,  the  landscape, 

people,  animals, 
The  profound  earth  and  its  attributes  and  the  unquiet  ocean,  (so 

tell  I  my  morning's  romanza,) 
All  enjoyments  and  properties  and  money,  and  whatever  money 

will  buy, 
The  best  farms,  others  toiling  and  planting  and  he  unavoidably 

reaps, 
The  noblest  and  costliest  cities,  others  grading  and  building  and 

he  domiciles  there, 
Nothing  for  any  one  but  what  is  for  him,  near  and  far  are  for  him, 

the  ships  in  the  offing, 
The  perpetual  shows  and  marches  on  land  are  for  him  if  they  are 

for  anybody. 

He  puts  things  in  their  attitudes, 
He  puts  to-day  out  of  himself  with  plasticity  and  love, 
He  places  his  own  times,  reminiscences,  parents,  brothers   and 
sisters,  associations,  employment,  politics,  so  that  the  rest 
never   shame   them   afterward,  nor  assume   to   command 
them. 

He  is  the  Answerer, 

What  can  be  answer'd  he  answers,  and  what  cannot  be  answer'd 
he  shows  how  it  cannot  be  answer'd. 

A  man  is  a  summons  and  challenge, 

(It  is  vain  to  skulk  —  do  you  hear  that  mocking  and  laughter?  do 
you  hear  the  ironical  echoes?) 

Books,  friendships,  philosophers,  priests,  action,  pleasure,  pride, 
beat  up  and  down  seeking  to  give  satisfaction, 

He  indicates  the  satisfaction,  and  indicates  them  that  beat  up  and 
down  also. 

Whichever  the  sex,  whatever  the  season  or  place,  he  may  go  freshly 

and  gently  and  safely  by  day  or  by  night, 
He  has  the  pass-key  of  hearts,  to  him  the  response  of  the  prying 

of  hands  on  the  knobs. 

His  welcome  is  universal,  the  flow  of  beauty  is  not  more  welcome 

or  universal  than  he  is, 
The  person  he  favors  by  day  or  sleeps  with  at  night  is  blessed. 

Every  existence  has  its  idiom,  every  thing  has  an  idiom  and  tongue, 


136  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

He  resolves  all  tongues  into  his  own  and  bestows  it  upon  men,  and 
any  man  translates,  and  any  man  translates  himself  also, 

One  part  does  not  counteract  another  part,  he  is  the  joiner,  he 
sees  how  they  join. 

He  says  indifferently  and   alike   How  are  you  friend?   to  the 

President  at  his  levee, 
And  he  says    Good-day  my  brother,  to  Cudge  that  hoes   in   the 

sugar-field, 
And  both  understand  him  and  know  that  his  speech  is  right. 

He  walks  with  perfect  ease  in  the  capitol, 

He  walks  among  the  Congress,  and  one  Representative  says  to 
another,  Here  is  our  equal  appearing  and  new. 

Then  the  mechanics  take  him  for  a  mechanic, 

And  the  soldiers  suppose  him  to  be  a  soldier,  and  the  sailors  that 

he  has  follow'd  the  sea, 
And  the  authors  take  him  for  an  author,  and  the  artists  for  an 

artist, 

And  the  laborers  perceive  he  could  labor  with  them  and  love  them, 
No  matter  what  the  work  is,  that  he  is  the  one  to  follow  it  or  has 

follow'd  it, 
No  matter  what  the  nation,  that  he  might  find  his  brothers  and 

sisters  there. 

The  English  believe  he  comes  of  their  English  stock, 
A  Jew  to  the  Jew  he  seems,  a  Russ  to  the  Russ,  usual  and  near, 
removed  from  none. 

Whoever  he  looks  at  in  the  traveler's  coffee-house  claims  him, 
The  Italian  or  Frenchman  is  sure,  the  German  is  sure,  the  Spaniard 

is  sure,  and  the  island  Cuban  is  sure, 

The  engineer,  the  deck-hand  on  the  great  lakes,  or  on  the  Missis 
sippi  or  St.  Lawrence  or  Sacramento,  or  Hudson  or  Pau- 
manok  sound,  claims  him. 

The  gentleman  of  perfect  blood  acknowledges  his  perfect  blood, 
The  insulter,  the  prostitute,  the  angry  person,  the  beggar,  see 

themselves  in  the  ways  of  him,  he  strangely  transmutes  them, 
They  are  not  vile  any  more,  they  hardly  know  themselves  they  are 

so  grown. 


The  indications  and  tally  of  time. 

Perfect  sanity  shows  the  master  among  philosophs, 


OF  THE  ANSWERER.  137 

Time,  always  without  break,  indicates  itself  in  parts, 
What  always  indicates  the  poet  is  the  crowd  of  the  pleasant  com 
pany  of  singers,  and  their  words, 

The  words  of  the  singers  are  the  hours  or  minutes  of  the  light  or 
dark,  but  the  words  of  the  maker  of  poems  are  the  general 
light  and  dark, 

The  maker  of  poems  settles  justice,  reality,  immortality, 
His  insight  and  power  encircle  things  and  the  human  race, 
He  is  the  glory  and  extract  thus  far  of  things  and  of  the  human 
race. 

The  singers  do  not  beget,  only  the  Poet  begets, 

The  singers  are  welcom'd,  understood,  appear  often  enough,  but 

rare  has  the  day  been,  likewise  the  spot,  of  the  birth  of  the 

maker  of  poems,  the  Answerer, 
(Not  every  century  nor  every  five  centuries  has  contain'd  such  a 

day,  for  all  its  names.) 

The  singers  of  successive  hours  of  centuries  may  have  ostensible 
names,  but  the  name  of  each  of  them  is  one  of  the  singers, 

The  name  of  each  is,  eye-singer,  ear-singer,  head-singer,  sweet- 
singer,  night- singer,  parlor-singer,  love-singer,  weird-singer, 
or  something  else. 

All  this  time  and  at  all  times  wait  the  words  of  true  poems, 

The  words  of  true  poems  do  not  merely  please, 

The  true  poets  are  not  followers  of  beauty  but  the  august  masters 

of  beauty ; 
The  greatness  of  sons  is  the  exuding  of  the  greatness  of  mothers 

and  fathers, 
The  words  of  true  poems  are  the  tuft  and  final  applause  of  science. 

Divine  instinct,  breadth  of  vision,  the  law  of  reason,  health,  rudeness 

of  body,  withdrawnness, 
Gayety,  sun-tan,  air-sweetness,  such  are  some  of  the  words  of  poems. 

The  sailor  and  traveler  underlie  the  maker  of  poems,  the  Answerer, 
The  builder,  geometer,  chemist,  anatomist,  phrenologist,  artist,  all 
these  underlie  the  maker  of  poems,  the  Answerer. 

The  words  of  the  true  poems  give  you  more  than  poems, 

They  give  you  to  form  for  yourself  poems,  religions,  politics,  war, 

peace,  behavior,  histories,  essays,  daily  life,  and  every  <Jiing 

else, 
They  balance  ranks,  colors,  races,  creeds,  and  the  sexes, 


138  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

They  do  not  seek  beauty,  they  are  sought, 

Forever  touching  them  or  close  upon  them  follows  beauty,  longing, 
fain,  love-sick. 

They  prepare  for  death,  yet  are  they  not  the  finish,  but  rather  the 

outset, 

They  bring  none  to  his  or  her  terminus  or  to  be  content  and  full, 
Whom  they  take  they  take  into  space  to  behold  the  birth  of  stars, 

to  learn  one  of  the  meanings, 
To  launch  off  with  absolute  faith,  to  sweep  through  the  ceaseless 

rings  and  never  be  quiet  again. 


OUR   OLD   FEUILLAGE. 

A  LWAYS  our  old  feuillage  ! 
-t\  Always  Florida's  green  peninsula  —  always  the  priceless 

delta  of  Louisiana  —  always  the  cotton-fields  of  Alabama 

and  Texas, 

Always  California's  golden  hills  and  hollows,  and  the  silver  moun 
tains  of  New  Mexico  —  always  soft-breath'd  Cuba, 
Always  the  vast  slope  drain'd  by  the  Southern  sea,  inseparable  with 

the  slopes  drain'd  by  the  Eastern  and  Western  seas, 
The  area  the  eighty-third  year  of  these  States,  the  three  and  a  half 

millions  of  square  miles, 
The  eighteen  thousand  miles  of  sea-coast  and  bay-coast  on  the 

main,  the  thirty  thousand  miles  of  river  navigation, 
The  seven  millions  of  distinct  families  and  the  same  number  of 

dwellings  —  always  these,  and  more,  branching  forth  into 

numberless  branches, 
Always  the  free  range  and  diversity  —  always  the  continent  of 

Democracy ; 
Always  the  prairies,  pastures,  forests,  vast  cities,  travelers,  Kanada, 

the  snows ; 
Always  these  compact  lands  tied  at  the  hips  with  the  belt  stringing 

the  huge  oval  lakes ; 
Always  the  West  with  strong  native  persons,  the  increasing  density 

there,  the  habitans,  friendly,  threatening,  ironical,  scorning 

invaders ; 
All  sights,  South,  North,  East  —  all  deeds,  promiscuously  done  at 

all  times, 

All  characters,  movements,  growths,  a  few  noticed,  myriads  unno 
ticed, 
Through  Mannahatta's  streets  I  walking,  these  things  gathering, 


OUR  OLD  FEUILLAGE.  139 

On  interior  rivers  by  night  in  the  glare  of  pine  knots,  steamboats 

wooding  up, 
Sunlight  by  day  on  the  valley  of  the  Susquehanna,  and  on  the 

valleys  of  the  Potomac  and  Rappahannock,  and  the  valleys 

of  the  Roanoke  and  Delaware, 
In  their  northerly  wilds  beasts  of  prey  haunting  the  Adirondacks 

the  hills,  or  lapping  the  Saginaw  waters  to  drink, 
In  a  lonesome  inlet  a  sheldrake  lost  from  the  flock,  sitting  on  the 

water  rocking  silently, 
In  farmers'  barns  oxen  in  the  stable,  their  harvest  labor  done,  they 

rest  standing,  they  are  too  tired, 
Afar  on  arctic  ice  the  she-walrus  lying  drowsily  while  her  cubs  play 

around, 
The  hawk  sailing  where  men  have  not  yet  sail'd,  the  farthest  polar 

sea,  ripply,  crystalline,  open,  beyond  the  floes, 
White  drift  spooning  ahead  where  the  ship  in  the  tempest  dashes, 
On  solid  land  what  is  done  in  cities  as  the  bells  strike  midnight 

together, 
In  primitive  woods  the  sounds  there  also  sounding,  the  howl  of  the 

wolf,  the  scream  of  the  panther,  and  the  hoarse  bellow  of 

the  elk, 
In  winter  beneath  the  hard  blue  ice  of  Moosehead  lake,  in  summer 

visible  through  the  clear  waters,  the  great  trout  swimming, 
In  lower  latitudes  in  warmer  air  in  the  Carolinas  the  large  black 

buzzard  floating  slowly  high  beyond  the  tree  tops, 
Below,  the  red   cedar  festoon'd  with   tylandria,  the   pines    and 

cypresses  growing  out  of  the  white  sand  that  spreads  far 

and  flat, 
Rude  boats  descending  the  big  Pedee,  climbing  plants,  parasites 

with  color'd  flowers  and  berries  enveloping  huge  trees, 
The  waving  drapery  on  the  live-oak  trailing  long  and  low,  noise 
lessly  waved  by  the  wind, 
The  camp  of  Georgia  wagoners  just  after  dark,  the  supper-fires 

and  the  cooking  and  eating  by  whites  and  negroes, 
Thirty  or  forty  great   wagons,  the   mules,  cattle,  horses,  feeding 

from  troughs, 

The  shadows,  gleams,  up  under  the  leaves  of  the  old  sycamore- 
trees,  the  flames  with  the  black  smoke  from  the  pitch-pine 

curling  and  rising ; 

Southern  fishermen  fishing,  the  sounds  and  inlets  of  North  Caro 
lina's   coast,  the  shad-fishery  and  the  herring-fishery,  the 

large   sweep-seines,  the   windlasses   on    shore   work'd    by 

horses,  the  clearing,  curing,  and  packing-houses ; 
Deep  in  the  forest  in  piney  woods  turpentine  dropping  from  the 

incisions  in  the  trees,  there  are  the  turpentine  works, 
10 


140  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

There  are  the  negroes  at  work  in  good  health,  the  ground  in  all 
directions  is  cover'd  with  pine  straw ; 

In  Tennessee  and  Kentucky  slaves  busy  in  the  coalings,  at  the 
forge,  by  the  furnace-blaze,  or  at  the  corn- shucking, 

In  Virginia,  the  planter's  son  returning  after  a  long  absence,  joy 
fully  welcom'd  and  kiss'd  by  the  aged  mulatto  nurse, 

On  rivers  boatmen  safely  moor'd  at  nightfall  in  their  boats  under 
shelter  of  high  banks, 

Some  of  the  younger  men  dance  to  the  sound  of  the  banjo  or 
fiddle,  others  sit  on  the  gunwale  smoking  and  talking ; 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  mocking-bird,  the  American  mimic, 
singing  in  the  Great  Dismal  Swamp, 

There  are  the  greenish  waters,  the  resinous  odor,  the  plenteous 
moss,  the  cypress-tree,  and  the  juniper-tree ; 

Northward,  young  men  of  Mannahatta,  the  target  company  from 
an  excursion  returning  home  at  evening,  the  musket-muz 
zles  all  bear  bunches  of  flowers  presented  by  women  ; 

Children  at  play,  or  on  his  father's  lap  a  young  boy  fallen  asleep, 
(how  his  lips  move  !  how  he  smiles  in  his  sleep  !) 

The  scout  riding  on  horseback  over  the  plains  west  of  the  Missis 
sippi,  he  ascends  a  knoll  and  sweeps  his  eyes  around ; 

California  life,  the  miner,  bearded,  dress'd  in  his  rude  costume, 
the  stanch  California  friendship,  the  sweet  air,  the  graves 
one  in  passing  meets  solitary  just  aside  the  horse-path ; 

Down  in  Texas  the  cotton-field,  the  negro-cabins,  drivers  driving 
mules  or  oxen  before  rude  carts,  cotton  bales  piled  on 
banks  and  wharves ; 

Encircling  all,  vast-darting  up  and  wide,  the  American  Soul,  with 
equal  hemispheres,  one  Love,  one  Dilation  or  Pride ; 

In  arriere  the  peace-talk  with  the  Iroquois  the  aborigines,  the 
calumet,  the  pipe  of  good-will,  arbitration,  and  indorse 
ment, 

The  sachem  blowing  the  smoke  first  toward  the  sun  and  then 
toward  the  earth, 

The  drama  of  the  scalp-dance  enacted  with  painted  faces  and 
guttural  exclamations, , 

The  setting  out  of  the  war-party,  the  long  and  stealthy  march, 

The  single  file,  the  swinging  hatchets,  the  surprise  and  slaughter 
of  enemies ; 

All  the  acts,  scenes,  ways,  persons,  attitudes  of  these  States, 
reminiscences,  institutions, 

All  these  States  compact,  every  square  mile  of  these  States  without 
excepting  a  particle ; 

Me  pleas'd,  rambling  in  lanes  and  country  fields,  Paumanok's 
fields, 


OUR  OLD  FEUILLAGE.  141 

Observing  the  spiral  flight  of  two  little  yellow  butterflies  shuffling 
between  each  other,  ascending  high  in  the  air, 

The  darting  swallow,  the  destroyer  of  insects,  the  fall  traveler 
southward  but  returning  northward  early  in  the  spring, 

The  country  boy  at  the  close  of  the  day  driving  the  herd  of  cows 
and  shouting  to  them  as  they  loiter  to  browse  by  the  road 
side, 

The  city  wharf,  Boston,  Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  Charleston,  New 
Orleans,  San  Francisco, 

The  departing  ships  when  the  sailors  heave  at  the  capstan ; 

Evening  —  me  in  my  room  —  the  setting  sun, 

The  setting  summer  sun  shining  in  my  open  window,  showing  the 
swarm  of  flies,  suspended,  balancing  in  the  air  in  the  centre 
of  the  room,  darting  athwart,  up  and  down,  casting  swift 
shadows  in  specks  on  the  opposite  wall  where  the  shine  is ; 

The  athletic  American  matron  speaking  in  public  to  crowds  of 
listeners, 

Males,  females,  immigrants,  combinations,  the  copiousness,  the 
individuality  of  the  States,  each  for  itself — the  money 
makers, 

Factories,  machinery,  the  mechanical  forces,  the  windlass,  lever, 
pulley,  all  certainties, 

The  certainty  of  space,  increase,  freedom,  futurity, 

In  space  the  sporades,  the  scatter'd  islands,  the  stars  —  on  the? 
firm  earth,  the  lands,  my  lands, 

O  lands  !  all  so  dear  to  me  —  what  you  are,  (whatever  it  is,)  I 
putting  it  at  random  in  these  songs,  become  a  part  of  that, 
whatever  it  is, 

Southward  there,  I  screaming,  with  wings  slow  flapping,  with  the 
myriads  of  gulls  wintering  along  the  coasts  of  Florida, 

Otherways  there  atwixt  the  banks  of  the  Arkansaw,  the  Rio 
Grande,  the  Nueces,  the  Brazos,  the  Tombigbee,  the  Red 
River,  the  Saskatchawan  or  the  Osage,  I  with  the  spring 
waters  laughing  and  skipping  and  running, 

Northward,  on  the  sands,  on  some  shallow  bay  of  Paumanok,  I 
with  parties  of  snowy  herons  wading  in  the  wet  to  seek 
worms  and  aquatic  plants, 

Retreating,  triumphantly  twittering,  the  king-bird,  from  piercing 
the  crow  with  its  bill,  for  amusement  —  and  I  triumphantly 
twittering, 

The  migrating  flock  of  wild  geese  alighting  in  autumn  to  refresh 
themselves,  the  body  of  the  flock  feed,  the  sentinels  out 
side  move  around  with  erect  heads  watching,  and  are  from 
time  to  time  reliey'd  by  other  sentinels  —  and  I  feeding 
and  taking  turns  with  the  rest, 


142  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


In  Kanadian  forests  the  moose,  large  as  an  ox,  corner'd  by 
hunters,  rising  desperately  on  his  hind -feet,  and  plunging 
with  his  fore-feet,  the  hoofs  as  sharp  as  knives  —  and  I, 
plunging  at  the  hunters,  corner'd  and  desperate, 

In  the  Mannahatta,  streets,  piers,  shipping,  store-houses,  and  the 
countless  workmen  working  in  the  shops, 

And  I  too  of  the  Mannahatta,  singing  thereof — and  no  less  in 
myself  than  the  whole  of  the  Mannahatta  in  itself, 

Singing  the  song  of  These,  my  ever-united  lands  —  my  body  no 
more  inevitably  united,  part  to  part,  and  made  out  of  a 
thousand  diverse  contributions  one  identity,  any  more  than 
my  lands  are  inevitably  united  and  made  ONE  IDENTITY  ; 

Nativities,  climates,  the  grass  of  the  great  pastoral  Plains, 

Cities,  labors,  death,  animals,  products,  war,  good  and  evil  — 
these  me, 

These  affording,  in  all  their  particulars,  the  old  feuillage  to  me 
and  to  America,  how  can  I  do  less  than  pass  the  clew  of 
the  union  of  them,  to  afford  the  like  to  you  ? 

Whoever  you  are  !  how  can  I  but  offer  you  divine  leaves,  that  you 
also  be  eligible  as  I  am? 

How  can  I  but  as  here  chanting,  invite  you  for  yourself  to  collect 
bouquets  of  the  incomparable  feuillage  of  these  States  ? 


A  SONG  OF  JOYS. 
U 

TO  make  the  most  jubilant  song  ! 

Full  of  music  —  full  of  manhood,  womanhood,  infancy  ! 
Full  of  common  employments  —  full  of  grain  and  trees. 


O 


O  for  the  voices  of  animals  —  O  for  the  swiftness  and  balance  of 

fishes  ! 

O  for  the  dropping  of  raindrops  in  a  song  ! 
O  for  the  sunshine  and  motion  of  waves  in  a  song  ! 

0  the  joy  of  my  spirit  —  it  is  uncaged  —  it  darts  like  lightning  ! 
It  is  not  enough  to  have  this  globe  or  a  certain  time, 

1  will  have  thousands  of  globes  and  all  time. 

O  the  engineer's  joys  !  to  go  with  a  locomotive  ! 

To  hear  the  hiss  of  steam,  the  merry  shriek,  the  steam-whistle,  the 

laughing  locomotive  ! 
To  push  with  resistless  way  and  speed  off  in  the  distance. 


A  SONG  OF  JOYS.  143 

O  the  gleesome  saunter  over  fields  and  hillsides  ! 

The  leaves  and  flowers  of  the  commonest  weeds,  the  moist  fresh 

stillness  of  the  woods, 
The  exquisite  smell  of  the  earth  at  daybreak,  and  all  through  the 

forenoon. 

O  the  horseman's  and  horsewoman's  joys  ! 

The  saddle,  the  gallop,  the  pressure  upon  the  seat,  the  cool  gurgling 
by  the  ears  and  hair. 

0  the  fireman's  joys  ! 

1  hear  the  alarm  at  dead  of  night, 

I  hear  bells,  shouts  !  I  pass  the  crowd,  I  run  ! 
The  sight  of  the  flames  maddens  me  with  pleasure. 

O  the  joy  of  the  strong-brawn'd  fighter,  towering  in  the  arena  in 
perfect  condition,  conscious  of  power,  thirsting  to  meet  his 
opponent. 

O  the  joy  of  that  vast  elemental  sympathy  which  only  the  human 
soul  is  capable  of  generating  and  emitting  in  steady  and 
limitless  floods. 

O  the  mother's  joys  ! 

The  watching,  the  endurance,  the  precious  love,  the  anguish,  the 
patiently  yielded  life. 

O  the  joy  of  increase,  growth,  recuperation, 

The  joy  of  soothing  and  pacifying,  the  joy  of  concord  and  harmony. 

O  to  go  back  to  the  place  where  I  was  born, 

To  hear  the  birds  sing  once  more, 

To  ramble  about  the  house  and  barn  and  over  the  fields  once  more, 

And  through  the  orchard  and  along  the  old  lanes  once  more. 

0  to  have  been  brought  up  on  bays,  lagoons,  creeks,  or  along  the 

coast, 

To  continue  and  be  employ'd  there  all  my  life, 
The  briny  and  damp  smell,  the  shore,  the  salt  weeds  exposed  at 

low  water, 
The  work  of  fishermen,  the  work  of  the  eel-fisher  and  clam-fisher ; 

1  come  with  my  clam-rake  and  spade,  I  come  with  my  eel-spear, 
Is  the  tide  out  ?  I  join  the  group  of  clam-diggers  on  the  flats, 

I  laugh  and  work  with  them,  I  joke  at  my  work  like  a  mettlesome 
young  man ; 


r44  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


In  winter  I  take  my  eel-basket  and  eel-spear  and  travel  out  on  foot 
on  the  ice  —  I  have  a  small  axe  to  cut  holes  in  the  ice, 

Behold  me  well-clothed  going  gayly  or  returning  in  the  afternoon, 
my  brood  of  tough  boys  accompanying  me, 

My  brood  of  grown  and  part-grown  boys,  who  love  to  be  with  no 
one  else  so  well  as  they  love  to  be  with  me, 

By  day  to  work  with  me,  and  by  night  to  sleep  with  me. 

Another  time  in  warm  weather  out  in  a  boat,  to  lift  the  lobster-pots 
where  they  are  sunk  with  heavy  stones,  (I  know  the 
buoys,) 

0  the  sweetness  of  the  Fifth-month  morning  upon  the  water  as  I 

row  just  before  sunrise  toward  the  buoys, 

1  pull  the  wicker  pots  up  slantingly,  the  dark  green  lobsters  are 

desperate  with  their  claws  as   I   take  them  out,  I   insert 

wooden  pegs  in  the  joints  of  their  pincers, 
I  go  to  all  the  places  one  after  another,  and  then  row  back  to  the 

shore, 
There  in  a  huge  kettle  of  boiling  water  the  lobsters  shall  be  boil'd 

till  their  color  becomes  scarlet. 

Another  time  mackerel-taking, 

Voracious,  mad  for  the  hook,  near  the  surface,  they  seem  to  fill  the 

water  for  miles ; 
Another  time  fishing  for  rock-fish  in  Chesapeake  bay,  I  one  of  the 

brown-faced  crew; 
Another  time  trailing  for  blue-fish  off  Paumanok,  I  stand  with 

braced  body, 
My  left  foot  is  on  the  gunwale,  my  right  arm  throws  far  out  the 

coils  of  slender  rope, 
In  sight  around  me  the  quick  veering  and  darting  of  fifty  skiffs, 

my  companions. 

O  boating  on  the  rivers, 

The  voyage   down  the   St.  Lawrence,  the   superb   scenery,  the 

steamers, 
The  ships  sailing,  the  Thousand  Islands,  the  occasional  timber-raft 

and  the  raftsmen  with  long-reaching  sweep-oars, 
The  little  huts  on  the  rafts,  and  the  stream  of  smoke  when  they 

cook  supper  at  evening. 

(O  something  pernicious  and  dread  ! 
Something  far  away  from  a  puny  and  pious  life  ! 
Something  unproved  !  something  in  a  trance  ! 
Something  escaped  from  the  anchorage  and  driving  free.) 


A  SONG  OF  JOYS.  145 

O  to  work  in  mines,  or  forging  iron, 

Foundry  casting,  the  foundry  itself,  the  rude  high  roof,  the  ample 

and  shadow'd  space, 
The  furnace,  the  hot  liquid  pour'd  out  and  running. 

O  to  resume  the  joys  of  the  soldier  ! 

To  feel  the  presence  of  a  brave  commanding  officer  —  to  feel  his 

sympathy  ! 

To  behold  his  calmness  —  to  be  warm'd  in  the  rays  of  his  smile  ! 
To  go  to  battle  —  to  hear  the  bugles  play  and  the  drums  beat ! 
To  hear  the  crash  of  artillery — to  see  the  glittering  of  the  bayonets 

and  musket-barrels  in  the  sun  ! 
To  see  men  fall  and  die  and  not  complain  ! 
To  taste  the  savage  taste  of  blood  —  to  be  so  devilish  ! 
To  gloat  so  over  the  wounds  and  deaths  of  the  enemy. 

0  the  whaleman's  joys  !  O  I  cruise  my  old  cruise  again  ! 

1  feel  the  ship's  motion  under  me,  I  feel  the  Atlantic  breezes  fan 

ning  me, 
I  hear  the  cry  again  sent  down  from  the  mast-head,  There  —  she 

blows  ! 
Again  I  spring  up  the  rigging  to  look  with  the  rest  —  we  descend, 

wild  with  excitement, 

I  leap  in  the  lower'd  boat,  we  row  toward  our  prey  where  he  lies, 
We  approach   stealthy  and  silent,  I  see  the  mountainous   mass, 

lethargic,  basking, 
I  see  the  harpooneer  standing  up,  I  see  the  weapon  dart  from  his 

vigorous  arm ; 

0  swift  again  far  out  in  the  ocean  the  wounded  whale,  settling, 

running  to  windward,  tows  me, 
Again  I  see  him  rise  to  breathe,  we  row  close  again, 

1  see  a  lance  driven  through  his  side,  press'd  deep,  turn'd  in 

the  wound, 
Again  we  back  off,  I  see  him  settle  again,  the  life  is  leaving  him 

fast, 
As  he  rises  he  spouts  blood,  I  see  him  swim  in  circles  narrower 

and  narrower,  swiftly  cutting  the  water  —  I  see  him  die, 
He  gives  one  convulsive  leap  in  the  centre  of  the  circle,  and  then 

falls  flat  and  still  in  the  bloody  foam. 

O  the  old  manhood  of  me,  my  noblest  joy  of  all ! 

My  children  and  grand-children,  my  white  hair  and  beard, 

My  largeness,  calmness,  majesty,  out  of  the  long  stretch  of  my  life. 

O  ripen 'd  joy  of  womanhood  !  O  happiness  at  last ! 


146  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

I  am  more  than  eighty  years  of  age,  I  am  the  most  venerable 

mother, 

How  clear  is  my  mind  —  how  all  people  draw  nigh  to  me  ! 
What  attractions  are  these  beyond  any  before  ?  what  bloom  more 

than  the  bloom  of  youth? 
What  beauty  is  this  that  descends  upon  me  and  rises  out  of  me  ? 

O  the  orator's  joys  ! 

To  inflate  the  chest,  to  roll  the  thunder  of  the  voice  out  from  the 

ribs  and  throat, 

To  make  the  people  rage,  weep,  hate,  desire,  with  yourself, 
To  lead  America  —  to  quell  America  with  a  great  tongue. 

O  the  joy  of  my  soul  leaning  pois'd  on  itself,  receiving  identity 

through  materials  and  loving  them,  observing  characters 

and  absorbing  them, 
My  soul  vibrated  back  to  me  from  them,  from  sight,  hearing,  touch, 

reason,  articulation,  comparison,  memory,  and  the  like, 
The  real  life  of  my  senses  and  flesh  transcending  my  senses  and  flesh, 
My  body  done  with  materials,  my  sight  done  with  my  material  eyes, 
Proved  to  me  this  day  beyond  cavil  that  it  is  not  my  material  eyes 

which  finally  see, 
Nor  my  material  body  which  finally  loves,  walks,  laughs,  shouts, 

embraces,  procreates. 

O  the  farmer's  joys  ! 

Ohioan's,  Illinoisian's,  Wisconsinese',  Kanadian's,  lowan's,  Kan- 

sian's,  Missourian's,  Oregonese'  joys  ! 
To  rise  at  peep  of  day  and  pass  forth  nimbly  to  work, 
To  plough  land  in  the  fall  for  winter- sown  crops, 
To  plough  land  in  the  spring  for  maize, 
To  train  orchards,  to  graft  the  trees,  to  gather  apples  in  the  fall. 

O  to  bathe  in  the  swimming-bath,  or  in  a  good  place  along  shore, 
To  splash  the  water  !  to  walk  ankle-deep,  or  race  naked  along  the 
shore. 

O  to  realize  space  ! 

The  plenteousness  of  all,  that  there  are  no  bounds, 
To  emerge  and  be  of  the  sky,  of  the  sun  and  moon  and  flying 
clouds,  as  one  with  them. 

O  the  joy  of  a  manly  self-hood  ! 

To  be  servile  to  none,  to  defer  to  none,  not  to  any  tyrant  knowi> 
or  unknown, 


A  SONG  OF  JOYS.  147 

To  walk  with  erect  carriage,  a  step  springy  and  elastic, 
To  look  with  calm  gaze  or  with  a  flashing  eye, 
To  speak  with  a  full  and  sonorous  voice  out  of  a  broad  chest, 
To  confront  with  your  personality  all  the  other  personalities  of  the 
earth. 

Know'st  thou  the  excellent  joys  of  youth  ? 

Joys  of  the  dear  companions  and  of  the  merry  word  and  laughing 

face? 

Joy  of  the  glad  light-beaming  day,  joy  of  the  wide-breath'd  games? 
Joy  of  sweet  music,  joy  of  the  lighted  ball-room  and  the  dancers? 
Joy  of  the  plenteous  dinner,  strong  carouse  and  drinking? 

Yet  O  my  soul  supreme  ! 

Know'st  thou  the  joys  of  pensive  thought? 

Joys  of  the  free  and  lonesome  heart,  the  tender,  gloomy  heart? 

Joys  of  the  solitary  walk,  the  spirit  bow'd  yet  proud,  the  suffering 

and  the  struggle  ? 
The  agonistic  throes,  the  ecstasies,  joys  of  the  solemn  musings  day 

or  night  ? 

Joys  of  the  thought  of  Death,  the  great  spheres  Time  and  Space  ? 
Prophetic  joys  of  better,  loftier  love's  ideals,  the  divine  wife,  the 

sweet,  eternal,  perfect  comrade  ? 
Joys  all  thine  own  undying  one,  joys  worthy  thee  O  soul. 

O  while  I  live  to  be  the  ruler  of  life,  not  a  slave, 

To  meet  life  as  a  powerful  conqueror, 

No  fumes,  no  ennui,  no  more  complaints  or  scornful  criticisms, 

To  these  proud  laws  of  the  air,  the  water  and  the  ground,  proving 

my  interior  soul  impregnable, 
And  nothing  exterior  shall  ever  take  command  of  me. 

For  not  life's  joys  alone  I  sing,  repeating  —  the  joy  of  death  ! 
The  beautiful  touch  of  Death,  soothing  and  benumbing  a  few 

moments,  for  reasons, 
Myself  discharging   my  excrementitious   body  to   be  burn'd,    or 

render'd  to  powder,  or  buried, 
My  real  body  doubtless  left  to  me  for  other  spheres, 
My  voided  body  nothing  more  to  me,  returning  to  the  purifications, 

further  offices,  eternal  uses  of  the  earth. 

O  to  attract  by  more  than  attraction  ! 

How  it  is  I  know  not  —  yet  behold  !  the  something  which  obeys 

none  of  the  rest, 
It  is  offensive,  never  defensive  —  yet  how  magnetic  it  draws. 


148  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


O  to  struggle  against  great  odds,  to  meet  enemies  undaunted  ! 
To  be  entirely  alone  with  them,  to  find  how  much  one  can  stand  ! 
To  look  strife,  torture,  prison,  popular  odium,  face  to  face  ! 
To  mount  the  scaffold,  to  advance  to  the  muzzles  of  guns  with 

perfect  nonchalance  ! 
To  be  indeed  a  God  ! 

O  to  sail  to  sea  in  a  ship  ! 

To  leave  this  steady  unendurable  land, 

To  leave  the  tiresome  sameness  of  the  streets,  the  sidewalks  and 

the  houses, 

To  leave  you  O  you  solid  motionless  land,  and  entering  a  ship, 
To  sail  and  sail  and  sail ! 

O  to  have  life  henceforth  a  poem  of  new  joys  ! 

To  dance,  clap  hands,  exult,  shout,  skip,  leap,  roll  on,  float  on  ! 

To  be  a  sailor  of  the  world  bound  for  all  ports, 

A  ship  itself,  (see  indeed  these  sails  I  spread  to  the  sun  and  air,) 

A  swift  and  swelling  ship  full  of  rich  words,  full  of  joys. 


SONG  OF  THE  BROAD-AXE. 


WEAPON  shapely,  naked,  wan, 
Head  from  the  mother's  bowels  drawn, 
Wooded  flesh  and  metal  bone,  limb  only  one  and  lip  only  one, 
Gray-blue  leaf  by  red-heat  grown,  helve  produced  from  a  little 

seed  sown, 

Resting  the  grass  amid  and  upon, 
To  be  lean'd  and  to  lean  on. 

Strong  shapes  and  attributes  of  strong  shapes,  masculine  trades, 

sights  and  sounds, 

Long  varied  train  of  an  emblem,  dabs  of  music, 
Fingers  of  the  organist  skipping  staccato  over  the   keys   of  the 

great  organ. 

Welcome  are  all  earth's  lands,  each  for  its  kind, 
Welcome  are  lands  of  pine  and  oak, 
Welcome  are  lands  of  the  lemon  and  fig, 
Welcome  are  lands  of  gold, 


SONG  OF  THE  BROAD-AXE,  149 

Welcome  are  lands  of  wheat  and  maize,  welcome  those  of  the 

grape, 

Welcome  are  lands  of  sugar  and  rice, 
Welcome  the  cotton-lands,  welcome   those   of  the  white  potato 

and  sweet  potato, 

Welcome  are  mountains,  flats,  sands,  forests,  prairies, 
Welcome  the  rich  borders  of  rivers,  table-lands,  openings, 
Welcome  the  measureless  grazing-lands,  welcome  the  teeming  soil 

of  orchards,  flax,  honey,  hemp ; 

Welcome  just  as  much  the  other  more  hard-faced  lands, 
Lands  rich  as  lands  of  gold  or  wheat  and  fruit  lands, 
Lands  of  mines,  lands  of  the  manly  and  rugged  ores, 
Lands  of  coal,  copper,  lead,  tin,  zinc, 
Lands  of  iron  —  lands  of  the  make  of  the  axe. 


The  log  at  the  wood-pile,  the  axe  supported  by  it, 

The  sylvan  hut,  the  vine  over  the  doorway,  the  space  clear'd  for  a 

garden, 
The  irregular  tapping  of  rain  down  on  the  leaves  after  the  storm 

is  lull'd, 

The  wailing  and  moaning  at  intervals,  the  thought  of  the  sea, 
The  thought  of  ships  struck  in  the  storm  and  put  on  their  beam 

ends,  and  the  cutting  away  of  masts, 
The  sentiment  of  the  huge  timbers  of  old-fashion'd  houses  and 

barns, 
The  remember'd   print  or  narrative,  the  voyage  at  a  venture  of 

men,  families,  goods, 

The  disembarkation,  the  founding  of  a  new  city, 
The  voyage  of  those  who  sought  a  New  England  and  found  it,  the 

outset  anywhere, 

The  settlements  of  the  Arkansas,  Colorado,  Ottawa,  Willamette, 
The  slow  progress,  the  scant  fare,  the  axe,  rifle,  saddle-bags ; 
The  beauty  of  all  adventurous  and  daring  persons, 
The   beauty  of  wood-boys   and   wood-men   with  their  clear  un 

trimm'd  faces, 
The   beauty   of  independence,   departure,   actions   that  rely  on 

themselves, 
The  American  contempt  for  statutes  and  ceremonies,  the  bound-  { 

less  impatience  of  restraint, 
The  loose  drift  of  character,  the  inkling  through  random  types, 

the  solidification  \ 
The  butcher  in  the  slaughter-house,  the  hands  aboard  schooners 

and  sloops,  the  raftsman,  the  pioneer, 


150  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Lumbermen  in  their  winter  camp,  daybreak  in  the  woods,  stripes 

of  snow  on  the  limbs  of  trees,  the  occasional  snapping, 
The  glad  clear  sound  of  one's  own  voice,  the  merry  song,  the 

natural  life  of  the  woods,  the  strong  day's  work, 
The  blazing  fire  at  night,  the  sweet  taste  of  supper,  the  talk,  the 

bed  of  hemlock-boughs  and  the  bear-skin ; 
The  house-builder  at  work  in  cities  or  anywhere, 
The  preparatory  jointing,  squaring,  sawing,  mortising, 
The  hoist-up  of  beams,  the  push  of  them  in  their  places,  laying 

them  regular, 
Setting  the  studs  by  their  tenons  in  the  mortises  according  as  they 

were  prepared, 
The  blows  of  mallets  and  hammers,  the   attitudes   of  the   men, 

their  curv'd  limbs, 
Bending,  standing,  astride  the  beams,  driving  in  pins,  holding  on 

by  posts  and  braces, 

The  hook'd  arm  over  the  plate,  the  other  arm  wielding  the  axe, 
The  floor-men  forcing  the  planks  close  to  be  nail'd, 
Their  postures  bringing  their  weapons  downward  on  the  bearers, 
The  echoes  resounding  through  the  vacant  building ; 
The  huge  storehouse  earned  up  in  the  city  well  under  way, 
The  six  framing-men,  two  in  the  middle  and  two  at  each  end, 

carefully  bearing  on   their  shoulders   a   heavy  stick  for  a 

cross-beam, 
The  crowded  line  of  masons  with   trowels   in   their  right   hands 

rapidly  laying  the  long  side-wall,  two   hundred  feet  from 

front  to  rear, 
The   flexible  rise  and  fall  of  backs,  the  continual   click   of  the 

trowels  striking  the  bricks, 
The  bricks  one   after  another  each   laid   so  workmanlike   in   its 

place,  and  set  with  a  knock  of  the  trowel-handle, 
The  piles  of  materials,  the  mortar  on  the  mortar-boards,  and  the 

steady  replenishing  by  the  hod-men  ; 
Spar-makers  in  the   spar-yard,  the   swarming  row  of  well-grown 

apprentices, 
The  swing  of  their  axes  on  the  square- he  w'd  log  shaping  it  toward 

the  shape  of  a  mast, 

The  brisk  short  crackle  of  the  steel  driven  slantingly  into  the  pine, 
The  butter-color'd  chips  flying  off  in  great  flakes  and  slivers, 
The  limber  motion  of  brawny  young  arms  and  hips  in  easy  cos 
tumes, 
The   constructor   of  wharves,   bridges,  piers,   bulk-heads,   floats, 

stays  against  the  sea ; 
The  city  fireman,  the  fire  that  suddenly  bursts  forth  in  the  close- 

pack'd  square, 


SONG  OF  THE  BROAD-AXE. 


The  arriving  engines,  the  hoarse  shouts,  the  nimble  stepping  and 

daring, 
The  strong  command  through  the  fire-trumpets,  the  falling  in  line, 

the  rise  and  fall  of  the  arms  forcing  the  water, 
The  slender,  spasmic,  blue- white  jets,  the  bringing  to  bear  of  the 

hooks  and  ladders  and  their  execution, 
The  crash  and  cut  away  of  connecting  wood-work,  or  through 

floors  if  the  fire  smoulders  under  them, 
The  crowd  with   their  lit   faces  watching,  the   glare   and   dense 

shadows ; 

The  forger  at  his  forge-furnace  and  the  user  of  iron  after  him, 
The  maker  of  the  axe  large  and  small,  and  the  welder  and  tem- 

perer, 
The  chooser  breathing  his  breath  on  the  cold  steel  and  trying  the 

edge  with  his  thumb, 
The  one  who  clean-shapes  the  handle  and  sets  it  firmly  in  the 

socket ; 

The  shadowy  processions  of  the  portraits  of  the  past  users  also, 
The  primal  patient  mechanics,  the  architects  and  engineers, 
The  far-off  Assyrian  edifice  and  Mizra  edifice, 
The  Roman  lictors  preceding  the  consuls, 
The  antique  European  warrior  with  his  axe  in  combat, 
The  uplifted  arm,  the  clatter  of  blows  on  the  helmeted  head, 
The  death-howl,  the  limpsy  tumbling  body,  the  rush  of  friend  and 

foe  thither, 

The  siege  of  revolted  lieges  determin'd  for  liberty, 
The  summons  to  surrender,  the  battering  at  castle  gates,  the  truce 

and  parley, 

The  sack  of  an  old  city  in  its  time, 
The   bursting   in   of  mercenaries   and  bigots   tumultuously  and 

disorderly, 

Roar,  flames,  blood,  drunkenness,  madness, 
Goods  freely  rifled  from  houses  and  temples,  screams  of  women  in 

the  gripe  of  brigands, 
Craft  and  thievery  of  camp-followers,  men  running,  old  persons 

despairing, 

The  hell  of  war,  the  cruelties  of  creeds, 
The  list  of  all  executive  deeds  and  words  just  or  unjust, 
The  power  of  personality  just  or  unjust. 

Muscle  and  pluck  forever  ! 

What  invigorates  life  invigorates  death, 

And  the  dead  advance  as  much  as  the  living  advance, 

And  the  future  is  no  more  uncertain  than  the  present, 


152  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

For  the  roughness  of  the  earth  and  of  man  encloses  as  much  as 

the  delicatesse  of  the  earth  and  of  man, 
And  nothing  endures  but  personal  qualities. 

What  do  you  think  endures  ? 

Do  you  think  a  great  city  endures? 

Or  a  teeming  manufacturing  state  ?  or  a  prepared  constitution  ?  or 

the  best  built  steamships  ? 
Or  hotels  of  granite  and  iron  ?  or  any  chef-d'oeuvres  of  engineering, 

forts,  armaments? 

Away  !  these  are  not  to  be  cherish'd  for  themselves, 

They  fill  their  hour,  the  dancers  dance,  the  musicians  play  for 

them, 

The  show  passes,  all  does  well  enough  of  course, 
All  does  very  well  till  one  flash  of  defiance. 

A  great  city  is  that  which  has  the  greatest  men  and  women, 
If  it  be  a  few  ragged  huts  it  is  still  the  greatest  city  in  the  whole 
world. 


The  place  where  a  great  city  stands  is  not  the  place  of  stretch'd 
wharves,  docks,  manufactures,  deposits  of  produce  merely, 

Nor  the  place  of  ceaseless  salutes  of  new-comers  or  the  anchor- 
lifters  of  the  departing, 

Nor  the  place  of  the  tallest  and  costliest  buildings  or  shops  selling 
goods  from  the  rest  of  the  earth, 

Nor  the  place  of  the  best  libraries  and  schools,  nor  the  place  where 
money  is  plentiest, 

Nor  the  place  of  the  most  numerous  population. 

Where  the  city  stands  with  the  brawniest  breed  of  orators  and 

bards, 
Where  the  city  stands  that  is  belov'd  by  these,  and  loves  them  in 

return  and  understands  them, 
Where  no  monuments  exist  to  heroes  but  in  the  common  words 

and  deeds, 

Where  thrift  is  in  its  place,  and  prudence  is  in  its  place, 
Where  the  men  and  women  think  lightly  of  the  laws, 
Where  the  slave  ceases,  and  the  master  of  slaves  ceases, 
Where  the  populace  rise  at  once  against  the  never-ending  audacity 

of  elected  persons, 
Where  fierce  men  and  women  pour  forth  as  the  sea  to  the  whistle 

of  death  pours  its  sweeping  and  unript  waves, 


SONG  OF    THE  BROAD-AXE.  153 

Where  outside  authority  enters  always  after  the  precedence  ol 

inside  authority, 
Where  the  citizen  is  always  the  head  and  ideal,  and  President, 

Mayor,  Governor  and  what  not,  are  agents  for  pay, 
Where  children  are  taught  to  be  laws  to  themselves,  and  to  depend 

on  themselves, 

Where  equanimity  is  illustrated  in  affairs, 
Where  speculations  on  the  soul  are  encouraged, 
Where  women  walk  in  public  processions  in  the  streets  the  same 

as  the  men, 
Where  they  enter  the  public  assembly  and  take  places  the  same  as 

the  men ; 

Where  the  city  of  the  faithfulest  friends  stands, 
Where  the  city  of  the  cleanliness  of  the  sexes  stands, 
Where  the  city  of  the  healthiest  fathers  stands, 
Where  the  city  of  the  best-bodied  mothers  stands, 
There  the  great  city  stands. 

6 

How  beggarly  appear  arguments  before  a  defiant  deed  ! 
How  the  floridness  of  the  materials  of  cities  shrivels  before  a  man's 
or  woman's  look  ! 

All  waits  or  goes  by  default  till  a  strong  being  appears ; 

A  strong  being  is  the  proof  of  the  race  and  of  the  ability  of  the 

universe, 

When  he  or  she  appears  materials  are  overaw'd, 
The  dispute  on  the  soul  stops, 
The  old  customs  and  phrases  are  confronted,  turn'd  back,  or  laid 

away. 

What  is  your  money-making  now?  what  can  it  do  now? 

What  is  your  respectability  now? 

What  are  your  theology,  tuition,  society,  traditions,  statute-books, 

now? 

Where  are  your  jibes  of  being  now? 
Where  are  your  cavils  about  the  soul  now? 


A  sterile  landscape  covers  the  ore,  there  is  as  good  as  the  best  for 
all  the  forbidding  appearance, 

There  is  the  mine,  there  are  the  miners, 

The  forge-furnace  is  there,  the  melt  is  accomplish'd,  the  hammers- 
men  are  at  hand  with  their  tongs  and  hammers, 

What  always  served  and  always  serves  is  at  hand. 


154  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Than  this  nothing  has  better  served,  it  has  served  all, 

Served  the  fluent-tongued  and  subtle-sensed  Greek,  and  long  ere 

the  Greek, 

Served  in  building  the  buildings  that  last  longer  than  any, 
Served  the  Hebrew,  the  Persian,  the  most  ancient  Hindustanee, 
Served  the  mound-raiser  on  the  Mississippi,  served  those  whose 

relics  remain  in  Central  America, 
Served  Albic  temples  in  woods  or  on  plains,  with  unhewn  pillars 

and  the  druids, 
Served  the  artificial  clefts,  vast,  high,  silent,  on  the  snow-cover'd 

hills  of  Scandinavia, 
Served  those  who  time  out  of  mind  made  on  the  granite  walls 

rough  sketches  of  the  sun,  moon,  stars,  ships,  ocean  waves, 
Served  the  paths  of  the  irruptions  of  the  Goths,  served  the  pas 
toral  tribes  and  nomads, 

Served  the  long  distant  Kelt,  served  the  hardy  pirates  of  the  Baltic, 
Served  before  any  of  those  the  venerable  and  harmless  men  of 

Ethiopia, 
Served  the  making  of  helms  for  the  galleys  of  pleasure  and  the 

making  of  those  for  war, 

Served  all  great  works  on  land  and  all  great  works  on  the  sea, 
For  the  mediaeval  ages  and  before  the  mediaeval  ages, 
Served  not  the  living  only  then  as  now,  but  served  the  dead. 

8 

I  see  the  European  headsman, 

He  stands  mask'd,  clothed  in  red,  with  huge  legs  and  strong  naked 

arms, 
And  leans  on  a  ponderous  axe. 

(Whom  have  you  slaughter'd  lately  European  headsman  ? 
Whose  is  that  blood  upon  you  so  wet  and  sticky  ?) 

I  see  the  clear  sunsets  of  the  martyrs, 

I  see  from  the  scaffolds  the  descending  ghosts, 

Ghosts   of  dead   lords,   uncrown'd   ladies,   impeach'd   ministers, 

rejected  kings, 
Rivals,  traitors,  poisoners,  disgraced  chieftains  and  the  rest. 

I  see  those  who  in  any  land  have  died  for  the  good  cause, 
The  seed  is  spare,  nevertheless  the  crop  shall  never  run  out, 
(Mind  you  O  foreign  kings,  O  priests,  the  crop  shall  never  run  out.) 

I  see  the  blood  wash'd  entirely  away  from  the  axe, 
Both  blade  and  helve  are  clean, 


SONG  OF  THE  BROAD-AXE.  155 

They  spirt  no  more  the  blood  of  European  nobles,  they  clasp  no 
more  the  necks  of  queens. 

I  see  the  headsman  withdraw  and  become  useless, 

I  see  the  scaffold  untrodden  and  mouldy,  I  see  no  longer  any  axe 

upon  it, 
I  see  the  mighty  and  friendly  emblem  of  the  power  of  my  own 

race,  the  newest,  largest  race. 


(America  !  I  do  not  vaunt  my  love  for  you, 
I  have  what  I  have.) 

The  axe  leaps  ! 

The  solid  forest  gives  fluid  utterances, 
They  tumble  forth,  they  rise  and  form, 
Hut,  tent,  landing,  survey, 
Flail,  plough,  pick,  crowbar,  spade, 
Shingle,  rail,  prop,  wainscot,  jamb,  lath,  panel,  gable, 
Citadel,   ceiling,   saloon,   academy,   organ,    exhibition-house,    li 
brary, 

Cornice,  trellis,  pilaster,  balcony,  window,  turret,  porch, 
Hoe,  rake,  pitchfork,  pencil,  wagon,  staff,  saw,  jack-plane,  mallet, 

wedge,  rounce, 

Chair,  tub,  hoop,  table,  wicket,  vane,  sash,  floor, 
Work-box,  chest,  string'd  instrument,  boat,  frame,  and  what  not, 
Capitols  of  States,  and  capitol  of  the  nation  of  States, 
Long  stately  rows  in  avenues,  hospitals  for  orphans  or  for  the  poor 

or  sick, 
Manhattan  steamboats  and  clippers  taking  the  measure  of  all  seas. 

The  shapes  arise  ! 

Shapes  of  the  using  of  axes  anyhow,  and  the  users  and  all  that 

neighbors  them, 
Cutters  down  of  wood  and  haulers  of  it  to  the  Penobscot  or  Ken- 

nebec, 
Dwellers  in  cabins  among  the  Californian  mountains  or  by  the  little 

lakes,  or  on  the  Columbia, 
Dwellers  south  on  the  banks  of  the  Gila  or  Rio  Grande,  friendly 

gatherings,  the  characters  and  fun, 
Dwellers  along  the  St.  Lawrence,  or  north  in  Kanada,  or  down  by 

the  Yellowstone,  dwellers  on  coasts  and  off  coasts, 
Seal-fishers,  whalers,  arctic  seamen  breaking  passages  through  the 

ice. 
11 


156  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

The  shapes  arise  ! 

Shapes  of  factories,  arsenals,  foundries,  markets, 

Shapes  of  the  two-threaded  tracks  of  railroads, 

Shapes  of  the  sleepers  of  bridges,  vast  frameworks,  girders,  arches, 

Shapes  of  the  fleets  of  barges,  tows,  lake  and  canal  craft,  river  craft, 

Ship-yards  and  dry-docks  along  the  Eastern  and  Western  seas,  and 

in  many  a  bay  and  by-place, 
The  live-oak  kelsons,  the  pine  planks,  the  spars,  the  hackmatack- 

roots  for  knees, 
The  ships  themselves   on  their  ways,  the  tiers  of  scaffolds,  the 

workmen  busy  outside  and  inside, 
The  tools  lying  around,  the  great  auger  and  little  auger,  the  adze, 

bolt,  line,  square,  gouge,  and  bead-plane. 

10 

The  shapes  arise  ! 

The  shape  measur'd,  saw'd,  jack'd,  join'd,  stain'd, 
The  coffin  -shape  for  the  dead  to  lie  within  in  his  shroud, 
The  shape  got  out  in  posts,  in  the  bedstead  posts,  in  the  posts  of 

the  bride's  bed, 
The  shape  of  the  little  trough,  the  shape  of  the  rockers  beneath, 

the  shape  of  the  babe's  cradle, 

The  shape  of  the  floor-planks,  the  floor-planks  for  dancers'  feet, 
The  shape  of  the  planks  of  the  family  home,  the  home  of  the 

friendly  parents  and  children, 
The  shape  of  the  roof  of  the  home  of  the  happy  young  man  and 

woman,  the  roof  over  the  well-married  young  man  and 

woman, 
The  roof  over  the  supper  joyously  cook'd  by  the  chaste  wife,  and 

joyously  eaten  by  the  chaste  husband,  content  after  his 

day's  work. 

The  shapes  arise  ! 

The  shape  of  the  prisoner's  place  in  the  court-room,  and  of  him 

or  her  seated  in  the  place, 
The  shape  of  the  liquor-bar  lean'd  against  by  the  young  rum- 

drinker  and  the  old  rum-drinker, 
The  shape  of  the  shamed  and  angry  stairs  trod  by  sneaking  foot- 


, 
The  shape  of  the  sly  settee,  and  the  adulterous  unwholesome 

couple, 
The  shape  of  the  gambling-board  with  its  devilish  winnings  and 

losings, 
The  shape  of  the  step-ladder  for  the  convicted  and  sentenced 

murderer,  the  murderer  with  haggard  face  and  pinion'd  arms, 


SONG  OF  THE  EXPOSITION.  157 

The  sheriff  at  hand  with  his  deputies,  the  silent  and  white-lipp'd 
crowd,  the  dangling  of  the  rope. 

The  shapes  arise  ! 

Shapes  of  doors  giving  many  exits  and  entrances, 
The  door  passing  the  dissever'd  friend  flush'd  and  in  haste, 
The  door  that  admits  good  news  and  bad  news, 
The  door  whence  the  son  left  home  confident  and  puff'd  up, 
The  door  he  enter'd  again  from  a  long  and  scandalous  absence, 
diseas'd,  broken  down,  without  innocence,  without  means. 

ii 

Her  shape  arises, 

She  less  guarded  than  ever,  yet  more  guarded  than  ever, 

The  gross  and  soil'd  she  moves  among  do  not  make  her  gross  and 

soil'd, 

She  knows  the  thoughts  as  she  passes,  nothing  is  conceal'd  from  her, 
She  is  none  the  less  considerate  or  friendly  therefor, 
She  is  the  best  belov'd,  it  is  without  exception,  she  has  no  reason 

to  fear  and  she  does  not  fear, 
Oaths,  quarrels,  hiccupp'd  songs,  smutty  expressions,  are  idle  to 

her  as  she  passes, 

She  is  silent,  she  is  possess'd  of  herself,  they  do  not  offend  her, 
She  receives  them  as  the  laws  of  Nature  receive  them,  she  is  strong, 
She  too  is  a  law  of  Nature  —  there  is  no  law  stronger  than  she  is. 

12 

The  main  shapes  arise  ! 

Shapes  of  Democracy  total,  result  of  centuries, 

Shapes  ever  projecting  other  shapes, 

Shapes  of  turbulent  manly  cities, 

Shapes  of  the  friends  and  home-givers  of  the  whole  earth, 

Shapes  bracing  the  earth  and  braced  with  the  whole  earth. 


SONG  OF  THE  EXPOSITION 


(AH  little  recks  the  laborer, 

-^i"  How  near  his  work  is  holding  him  to  God. 

The  loving  Laborer  through  space  and  time.) 

After  all  not  to  create  only,  or  found  only, 


158  LEA  YES  OF  GRASS. 

But  to  bring  perhaps  from  afar  what  is  already  founded, 

To  give  it  our  own  identity,  average,  limitless,  free, 

To  fill  the  gross  the  torpid  bulk  with  vital  religious  fire, 

Not  to  repel  or  destroy  so  much  as  accept,  fuse,  rehabilitate, 

To  obey  as  well  as  command,  to  follow  more  than  to  lead, 

These  also  are  the  lessons  of  our  New  World ; 

While  how  little  the  New  after  all,  how  much  the  Old,  Old  World  ! 

Long  and  long  has  the  grass  been  growing, 
Long  and  long  has  the  rain  been  falling, 
Long  has  the  globe  been  rolling  round. 


Come  Muse  migrate  from  Greece  and  Ionia, 

Cross  out  please  those  immensely  overpaid  accounts, 

That  matter  of  Troy  and  Achilles'  wrath,  and  Eneas',  Odysseus' 

wanderings, 
Placard  "  Removed  "  and  "To  Let "  on  the  rocks  of  your  snowy 

Parnassus, 
Repeat  at  Jerusalem,  place  the  notice  high  on  Jaffa's  gate  and  on 

Mount  Moriah, 
The  same  on  the  walls  of  your  German,  French   and   Spanish 

castles,  and  Italian  collections, 
For  know  a  better,  fresher,  busier  sphere,  a  wide,  untried  domain 

awaits,  demands  you. 

3 

Responsive  to  our  summons, 

Or  rather  to  her  long-nurs'd  inclination, 

Join'd  with  an  irresistible,  natural  gravitation, 

She  comes  !  I  hear  the  rustling  of  her  gown, 

I  scent  the  odor  of  her  breath's  delicious  fragrance, 

I  mark  her  step  divine,  her  curious  eyes  a-turning,  rolling, 

Upon  this  very  scene. 

The  dame  of  dames  !  can  I  believe  then, 

Those  ancient  temples,  sculptures  classic,  could  none   of  them 

retain  her? 
Nor  shades  of  Virgil  and  Dante,  nor  myriad  memories,  poems, 

old  associations,  magnetize  and  hold  on  to  her  ? 
But  that  she's  left  them  all  —  and  here? 

Yes,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  say  so, 

I,  my  friends,  if  you  do  not,  can  plainly  see  her, 


SONG  OF  THE  EXPOSITION.  i$9 


The  same  undying  soul  of  earth's,  activity's,  beauty's,  heroism's 

expression, 
Out  from  her  evolutions  hither  come,  ended  the  strata  of  her 

former  themes, 

Hidden  and  cover'd  by  to-day's,  foundation  of  to-day's, 
Ended,  deceas'd  through  time,  her  voice  by  Castaly's  fountain, 
Silent  the  broken-lipp'd  Sphynx  in  Egypt,  silent  all  those  century- 
baffling  tombs, 
Ended  for  aye  the  epics  of  Asia's,  Europe's  helmeted  warriors, 

ended  the  primitive  call  of  the  muses, 

Calliope's  call  forever  closed,  Clio,  Melpomene,  Thalia  dead, 
Ended  the  stately  rhythmus  of  Una  and  Oriana,  ended  the  quest 

of  the  holy  Graal, 

Jerusalem  a  handful  of  ashes  blown  by  the  wind,  extinct, 
The  Crusaders'  streams  of  shadowy  midnight  troops  sped  with  the 

sunrise, 

Amadis,  Tancred,  utterly  gone,  Charlemagne,  Roland,  Oliver  gone, 
Palmerin,  ogre,  departed,  vanish'd  the  turrets  that  Usk  from  its 

waters  reflected, 
Arthur  vanish'd  with  all  his   knights,  Merlin   and   I^ncelot   and 

Galahad,  all  gone,  dissolv'd  utterly  like  an  exhalation ; 
Pass'd  !  pass'd  !  for  us,  forever  pass'd,  that  once  so  mighty  world, 

now  void,  inanimate,  phantom  world, 
Embroider'd,  dazzling,  foreign  world,  with  all  its  gorgeous  legends, 

myths, 
Its  kings  and   castles   proud,  its   priests   and  warlike   lords   and 

courtly  dames, 

Pass'd  to  its  charnel  vault,  coffin'd  with  crown  and  armor  on, 
Blazon'd  with  Shakspere's  purple  page, 
And  dirged  by  Tennyson's  sweet  sad  rhyme. 

I  say  I  see,  my  friends,  if  you  do  not,  the  illustrious  emigre", 
(having  it  is  true  in  her  day,  although  the  same,. changed, 
journey'd  considerable,) 

Making  directly  for  this  rendezvous,  vigorously  clearing  a  path  for 
herself,  striding  through  the  confusion, 

By  thud  of  machinery  and  shrill  steam-whistle  undismay'd, 

Bluff' d  not  a  bit  by  drain-pipe,  gasometers,  artificial  fertilizers, 

Smiling  and  pleas'd  with  palpable  intent  to  stay, 

She's  here,  install'd  amid  the  kitchen  ware  ! 

4 

But  hold  —  don't  I  forget  my  manners  ? 

To  introduce  the  stranger,  (what  else  indeed  do  I  live  to  chant 
for  ?)  to  thee  Columbia  ; 


160  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


In  liberty's  name  welcome  immortal !  clasp  hands, 
And  ever  henceforth  sisters  dear  be  both. 

Fear  not  O  Muse  !  truly  new  ways  and  days  receive,  surround  you, 
I  candidly  confess  a  queer,  queer  race,  of  novel  fashion, 
And  yet  the  same  old  human  race,  the  same  within,  without, 
Faces  and  hearts  the  same,  feelings  the  same,  yearnings  the  same, 
The  same  old  love,  beauty  and  use  the  same. 

5 
We  do  not  blame  thee  elder  World,  nor.  really  separate  ourselves 

from  thee, 

(Would  the  son  separate  himself  from  the  father?) 
Looking  back   on   thee,   seeing   thee   to   thy   duties,  grandeurs, 

through  past  ages  bending,  building, 
We  build  to  ours  to-day. 

Mightier  than  Egypt's  tombs, 
Fairer  than  Grecia's,  Roma's  temples, 
Prouder  than  Milan's  statued,  spired  cathedral, 
More  picturesque  than  Rhenish  castle-keeps, 
We  plan  even  now  to  raise,  beyond  them  all, 
Thy  great  cathedral  sacred  industry,  no  tomb, 
A  keep  for  life  for  practical  invention. 

As  in  a  waking  vision, 

E'en  while  I  chant  I  see  it  rise,  I  scan   and   prophesy  outside 

and  in, 
Its  manifold  ensemble. 

Around  a  palace,  loftier,  fairer,  ampler  than  any  yet, 

Earth's  modern  wonder,  history's  seven  outstripping, 

High  rising  tier  on  tier  with  glass  and  iron  facades, 

Gladdening  the  sun  and  sky,  enhued  in  cheerfulest  hues, 

Bronze,  lilac,  robin's-egg,  marine  and  crimson, 

Over  whose  golden  roof  shall  flaunt,  beneath  thy  banner  Freedom 

The  banners  of  the  States  and  flags  of  every  land, 

A  brood  of  lofty,  fair,  but  lesser  palaces  shall  cluster. 

Somewhere  within  their  walls  shall  all  that  forwards  perfect  human 

life  be  started, 
Tried,  taught,  advanced,  visibly  exhibited. 

Not  only  all  the  world  ol"  works,  trade,  products, 

But  all  the  workmen  of  the  world  here  to  be  represented. 


OF  THE  EXPOSITION.  l6l 


Here  shall  you  trace  in  flowing  operation, 

In  every  state  of  practical,  busy  movement,  the  rills  of  civilization, 

Materials  here  under  your  eye  shall  change  their  shape  as  if  by 

magic, 

The  cotton  shall  be  pick'd  almost  in  the  very  field, 
Shall  be  dried,  clean'd,  ginn'd,  baled,  spun  into  thread  and  cloth 

before  you, 
You  -shall  see  hands  at  work  at  all  the  old  processes  and  all  the 

new  ones, 
You  shall  see  the  various  grains  and  how  flour  is  made  and  then 

bread  baked  by  the  bakers, 
You  shall  see  the  crude  ores  of  California  and  Nevada  passing  on 

and  on  till  they  become  bullion, 

You  shall  watch  how  the  printer  sets  type,  and  learn  what  a  com 
posing-stick  is, 
You  shall  mark  in  amazement  the  Hoe  press  whirling  its  cylinders, 

shedding  the  printed  leaves  steady  and  fast, 
The  photograph,  model,  watch,  pin,  nail,  shall  be  created  before 

you. 

In  large  calm  halls,  a  stately  museum  shall  teach  you  the  infinite 

lessons  of  minerals, 
In   another,   woods,   plants,  vegetation   shall   be   illustrated  —  in 

another  animals,  animal  life  and  development. 

One  stately  house  shall  be  the  music  house, 
Others  for  other  arts  —  learning,  the  sciences,  shall  all  be  here, 
None  shall  be  slighted,  none  but  shall  here  be  honor'd,  help'd, 
exampled. 

6 

(This,  this   and   these,   America,    shall   be  yoiir   pyramids    and 

obelisks, 

Your  Alexandrian  Pharos,  gardens  of  Babylon, 
Your  temple  at  Olympia.) 

The  male  and  female  many  laboring  not, 
Shall  ever  here  confront  the  laboring  many, 
With  precious  benefits  to  both,  glory  to  all, 
To  thee  America,  and  thee  eternal  Muse. 

And  here  shall  ye  inhabit  powerful  Matrons  ! 

In  your  vast  state  vaster  than  all  the  old, 

Echoed  through  long,  long  centuries  to  come, 

To  sound  of  different,  prouder  songs,  with  stronger  themes, 


1 62  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


Practical,  peaceful  life,  the  people's  life,  the  People  themselves, 
Lifted,  illumin'd,  bathed  in  peace  —  elate,  secure  in  peace. 


Away  with  themes  of  war  !  away  with  war  itself ! 

Hence  from  my  shuddering  sight  to  never  more  return  that  show 

of  blacken'd,  mutilated  corpses  ! 
That  hell  unpent  and  raid  of  blood,  fit  for  wild  tigers  or  for  lop- 

tongued  wolves,  not  reasoning  men, 
And  in  its  stead  speed  industry's  campaigns, 
With  thy  undaunted  armies,  engineering, 
Thy  pennants  labor,  loosen'd  to  the  breeze, 
Thy  bugles  sounding  loud  and  clear. 

Away  with  old  romance  ! 

Away  with  novels,  plots  and  plays  of  foreign  courts, 

Away  with  love-verses  sugar'd  in  rhyme,  the  intrigues,  amours  of 

idlers, 
Fitted  for  only  banquets  of  the  night  where  dancers  to  late  music 

slide, 

The  unhealthy  pleasures,  extravagant  dissipations  of  the  few, 
With  perfumes,  heat  and  wine,  beneath  the  dazzling  chandeliers. 

To  you  ye  reverent  sane  sisters, 

I  raise  a  voice  for  far  superber  themes  for  poets  and  for  art, 

To  exalt  the  present  and  the  real, 

To  teach  the  average  man  the  glory  of  his  daily  walk  and  trade, 

To  sing  in  songs  how  exercise  and  chemical  life  are  never  to  be 
baffled, 

To  manual  work  for  each  and  all,  to  plough,  hoe,  dig, 

To  plant  and  tend  the  tree,  the  berry,  vegetables,  flowers,- 

For  every  man  to  see  to  it  that  he  really  do  something,  for  every 
woman  too ; 

To  use  the  hammer  and  the  saw,  (rip,  or  cross-cut,) 

To  cultivate  a  turn  for  carpentering,  plastering,  painting, 

To  work  as  tailor,  tailoress,  nurse,  hostler,  porter, 

To  invent  a  little,  something  ingenious,  to  aid  the  washing,  cook 
ing,  cleaning, 

And  hold  it  no  disgrace  to  take  a  hand  at  them  themselves. 

I  say  I  bring  thee  Muse  to-day  and  here, 

All  occupations,  duties  broad  and  close, 

Toil,  healthy  toil  and  sweat,  endless,  without  cessation, 

The  old,  old  practical  burdens,  interests,  joys, 


SONG  OP  THE  EXPOSITION.  163 

The  family,  parentage,  childhood,  husband  and  wife, 

The  house-comforts,  the  house  itself  and  all  its  belongings, 

Food  and  its  preservation,  chemistry  applied  to  it, 

Whatever  forms  the  average,  strong,  complete,  sweet-blooded  man 

or  woman,  the  perfect  longeve  personality, 

And  helps  its  present  life  to  health  and  happiness,  and  shapes  its  soul, 
For  the  eternal  real  life  to  come. 

With  latest  connections,  works,  the  inter-transportation  of  the  world, 

Steam-power,  the  great  express  lines,  gas,  petroleum, 

These  triumphs  of  our  time,  the  Atlantic's  delicate  cable, 

The  Pacific  railroad,  the  Suez  canal,  the  Mont  Cenis  and  Gothard 

and  Hoosac  tunnels,  the  Brooklyn  bridge, 
This  earth  all  spann'd  with  iron  rails,  with   lines   of  steamships 

threading  every  sea, 
Our  own  rondure,  the  current  globe  I  bring. 

8 

And  thou  America, 

Thy  offspring  towering  e'er  so   high,  yet  higher  Thee  above  all 

towering, 

With  Victory  on  thy  left,  and  at  thy  right  hand  Law ; 
Thou  Union  holding  all,  fusing,  absorbing,  tolerating  all, 
Thee,  ever  thee,  I  sing. 

Thou,  also  thou,  a  World, 

With  all  thy  wide  geographies,  manifold,  different,  distant, 
Rounded  by  thee  in  one  —  one  common  orbic  language, 
One  common  indivisible  destiny  for  All. 

And  by  the  spells  which  ye  vouchsafe  to  those  your  ministers  in 

earnest, 
I  here  personify  and  call  my  themes,  to  make  them  pass  before  ye. 

Behold,  America  !  (and  thou,  ineffable  guest  and  sister  !) 
For  thee  come  trooping  up  thy  waters  and  thy  lands ; 
Behold  !  thy  fields  and  farms,  thy  far-off  woods  and  mountains, 
As  in  procession  coming. 

Behold,  the  sea  itself, 

And  on  its  limitless,  heaving  breast,  the  ships ; 

See,  where  their  white  sails,  bellying  in  the  wind,  speckle  the  green 

and  blue, 

See,  the  steamers  coming  and  going,  steaming  in  or  out  of  port, 
See,  dusky  and  undulating,  the  long  pennants  of  smoke. 


164  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


Behold,  in  Oregon,  far  in  the  north  and  west, 

Or  in  Maine,  far  in  the  north  and  east,  thy  cheerful  axemen, 

Wielding  all  day  their  axes. 

Behold,  on  the  lakes,  thy  pilots  at  their  wheels,  thy  oarsmen, 
How  the  ash  writhes  under  those  muscular  arms  ! 

There  by  the  furnace,  and  there  by  the  anvil, 
Behold  thy  sturdy  blacksmiths  swinging  their  sledges, 
Overhand  so  steady,  overhand  they  turn  and  fall  with  joyous  clank, 
Like  a  tumult  of  laughter. 

Mark  the  spirit  of  invention  everywhere,  thy  rapid  patents, 
Thy  continual  workshops,  foundries,  risen  or  rising, 
See,  from  their  chimneys  how  the  tall  flame-fires  stream. 

Mark,  thy  interminable  farms,  North,  South, 

Thy  wealthy  daughter-states,  Eastern  and  Western, 

The  varied   products  of  Ohio,  Pennsylvania,  Missouri,  Georgia, 

Texas,  and  the  rest, 

Thy  limitless  crops,  grass,  wheat,  sugar,  oil,  corn,  rice,  hemp,  hops, 
Thy  barns   all   filPd,  the   endless   freight-train    and   the  bulging 

storehouse, 

The  grapes  that  ripen  on  thy  vines,  the  apples  in  thy  orchards, 
Thy  incalculable  lumber,  beef,  pork,  potatoes,  thy  coal,  thy  gold 

and  silver, 
The  inexhaustible  iron  in  thy  mines. 

All  thine  O  sacred  Union  ! 

Ships,  farms,  shops,  barns,  factories,  mines, 

City  and  State,  North,  South,  item  and  aggregate, 

We  dedicate,  dread  Mother,  all  to  thee  ! 

Protectress  absolute,  thou  !  bulwark  of  all ! 

For  well  we  know  that  while  thou  givest  each  and  all,  (generous 

as  God,) 

Without  thee  neither  all  nor  each,  nor  land,  home, 
Nor  ship,  nor  mine,  nor  any  here  this  day  secure, 
Nor  aught,  nor  any  day  secure. 

9 

And  thou,  the  Emblem  waving  over  all ! 
Delicate  beauty,  a  word  to  thee,  (it  may  be  salutary,) 
Remember  thou  hast  not  always  been  as  here  to-day  so  comfortably 
ensovereign'd, 


So JVG  OF  THE  REDWOOD-TREE.  165 


In  other  scenes  than  these  have  I  observ'd  thee  flag, 
Not  quite  so  trim  and  whole  and  freshly  blooming  in  folds  of  stain 
less  silk, 

But  I  have  seen  thee  bunting,  to  tatters  torn  upon  thy  splinter'd  staff, 
Or  clutch'd  to  some  young  color-bearer's  breast  with  desperate  hands, 
Savagely  struggled  for,  for  life  or  death,  fought  over  long, 
'Mid  cannons'  thunder-crash  and  many  a  curse  and  groan  and  yell, 

and  rifle-volleys  cracking  sharp, 
And  moving  masses  as  wild  demons  surging,  and  lives  as  nothing 

risk'd, 
For  thy  mere  remnant  grimed  with  dirt  and  smoke  and  sopp'd  in 

blood, 
For  sake  of  that,  my  beauty,  and  that  thou  might'st  dally  as  now 

secure  up  there, 
Many  a  good  man  have  I  seen  go  under. 

Now  here  and  these  and  hence  in  peace,  all  thine  O  Flag  ! 
And  here  and  hence  for  thee,  O  universal  Muse  !  and  thou  for  them  ! 
And  here  and  hence  O  Union,  all  the  work  and  workmen  thine  ! 
None  separate  from  thee  —  henceforth  One  only,  we  and  thou, 
(For  the   blood   of   the   children,   what   is   it,   only   the   blood 

maternal  ? 
And  lives  and  works,  what  are  they  all  at  last,  except  the  roads  to 

faith  and  death  ?) 

While  we   rehearse   our  measureless  wealth,  it  is  for  thee,  dear 

Mother, 

We  own  it  all  and  several  to-day  indissoluble  in  thee ; 
Think  not  our  chant,  our  show,  merely  for  products  gross  or  lucre 

—  it  is  for  thee,  the  soul  in  thee,  electric,  spiritual ! 
Our  farms,  inventions,  crops,  we  own  in  thee  !  cities  and  States  in 

thee! 
Our  freedom  all  in  thee  !  our  very  lives  in  thee  ! 


SONG  OF  THE   REDWOOD-TREE. 

A  CALIFORNIA  song, 
f\  A   prophecy   and   indirection,    a   thought   impalpable   to 

breathe  as  air, 

A  chorus  of  dryads,  fading,  departing,  or  hamadryads  departing, 
A  murmuring,  fateful,  giant  voice,  out  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
Voice  of  a  mighty  dying  tree  in  the  redwood  forest  dense. 


1 66  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Farewell  my  brethren, 

Farewell  O  earth  and  sky,  farewell  ye  neighboring  waters, 

My  time  has  ended,  my  term  has  come. 

Along  the  northern  coast, 

Just  back  from  the  rock-bound  shore  and  the  caves, 

In  the  saline  air  from  the  sea  in  the  Mendocino  country, 

With  the  surge  for  base  and  accompaniment  low  and  hoarse, 

With  crackling  blows  of  axes  sounding  musically  driven  by  strong 

arms, 
Riven  deep  by  the  sharp  tongues  of  the  axes,  there  in  the  redwood 

forest  dense, 
I  heard  the  mighty  tree  its  death- chant  chanting. 

The  choppers  heard  not,  the  camp  shanties  echoed  not, 

The  quick-ear' d  teamsters  and  chain  and  jack-screw  men  heard 

not, 
As  the  wood-spirits  came  from  their  haunts  of  a  thousand  years  to 

join  the  refrain, 
But  in  my  soul  I  plainly  heard. 

Murmuring  out  of  its  myriad  leaves, 
Down  from  its  lofty  top  rising  two  hundred  feet  high, 
Out  of  its  stalwart  trunk  and  limbs,  out  of  its  foot-thick  bark, 
That  chant  of  the  seasons  and  time,  chant  not  of  the  past  only 
but  the  future. 

You  untold  life  of  me, 

And  all  you  venerable  and  innocent 'joys , 

Perennial  hardy  life  of  me  with  joys  'mid  rain  and  many  a 

summer  sun, 

And  the  white  snows  and  night  and  the  wild  winds  ; 
O  the  great  patient  rugged  joys,  my  soul's  strong  joys  unreck'd  by 

man, 
(For  know  I  bear  the  soul  befitting  me,  I  too  have  consciousness, 

identity, 

And  all  the  rocks  and  mountains  have,  and  all  the  earth?) 
Joys  of  the  life  befitting  me  and  brothers  mine) 
Our  time,  our  term  has  come. 

Nor  yield  we  mournfully  majestic  brothers, 

We  who  have  grandly  fill'd  our  time ; 

With  Nature's  calm  content,  with  tacit  huge  delight, 

We  welcome  what  we  wrought  for  through  the  past, 

And  leave  the  field  for  them. 


SONG  OF  THE  REDWOOD-TREE.  167 


Far  them  predicted  long, 

For  a  superber  race,  they  too  to  grandly  fill  their  time, 

For  them  we  abdicate,  in  them  ourselves  ye  forest  kings  ! 

In   them    these   skies   and  airs,  these   mountain  peaks,  Shasta, 

Nevadas, 
These  huge  precipitous  cliffs,  this  amplitude,  these  valleys,  far 

Yo  Semite, 
To  be  in  them  absorbed,  assimilated, 

Then  to  a  loftier  strain, 
Still  prouder,  more  ecstatic  rose  the  chant, 
As  if  the  heirs,  the  deities  of  the  West, 
Joining  with  master-tongue  bore  part. 

Not  wan  from  Asia's  fetiches, 

Nor  red  from  Europe's  old  dynastic  slaughter-house, 

(Area  of  murder-plots  of  thrones,  with  scent  left  yet  of  wars  and 

scaffolds  everywhere^} 
But  come  from  Nature's  long  and  harmless  throes,  peacefully 

builded  thence, 

These  virgin  lands,  lands  of  the  Western  shore, 
To  the  new  culminating  man,  to  you,  the  e?npire  new, 
You  promised  long,  we  pledge,  we  dedicate. 

You  occult  deep  volitions, 

You  average  spiritual  manhood,  purpose  of  all,  pois'd  on  yourself, 

giving  not  taking  law, 
You  womanhood  divine,  mistress  and  source  of  all,  whence  life 

and  love  and  aught  that  comes  from  life  and  love, 
You  unseen  moral  essence  of  all  the  vast  materials  of  America, 

(age  upon  age  working  in  death  the  same  as  life,) 
You  that,  sometimes  known,  oftener  unknown,  really  shape  and 

mould  the  New  World,  adjusting  it  to  Time  and  Space, 
You  hidden  national  will  lying  in  your  abysms,  concealed  but  ever 

alert, 

You  past  and  present  purposes  tenaciously  pursued,  may-be  uncon 
scious  of  yourselves, 

Unswettfd  by  all  the  passing  errors,  perturbations  of  the  surface; 
You  vital,   universal,  deathless  germs,  beneath  all  creeds,  arts, 

statutes,  literatures, 
Here  build  your  homes  for  good,  establish  here,  these  areas 

lands  of  the  Western  shore, 
We  pledge,  we  dedicate  to  you. 

For  man  of  you,  your  characteristic  race, 


1 68  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Here  may  he  hardy,  sweet,  gigantic  grow,  here  tower  proportion 
ate  to  Nature, 

Here  climb  the  vast  pure  spaces  unconfined,  unchecked  by  wall  or 
roof, 

Here  laugh  with  storm  or  sun,  here  joy,  here  patiently  inure, 

Here  heed  himself,  unfold  himself,  (not  others'*  formulas  heed,} 
here  fill  his  time, 

To  duly  fall,  to  aid,  unrecWd  at  last, 

To  disappear,  to  serve. 

Thus  on  the  northern  coast, 

In  the  echo  of  teamsters'  calls  and  the  clinking  chains,  and  the 

music  of  choppers'  axes, 
The  falling  trunk  and  limbs,  the  crash,  the  muffled  shriek,  the 

groan, 
Such  words  combined  from  the  redwood-tree,  as  of  voices  ecstatic, 

ancient  and  rustling, 

The  century-lasting,  unseen  dryads,  singing,  withdrawing, 
All  their  recesses  of  forests  and  mountains  leaving, 
From  the  Cascade  range  to  the  Wahsatch,  or  Idaho  far,  or  Utah, 
To  the  deities  of  the  modern  henceforth  yielding, 
The  chorus  and  indications,  the  vistas  of  coming  humanity,  the 

settlements,  features  all, 
In  the  Mendocino  woods  I  caught. 


The  flashing  and  golden  pageant  of  California, 
The  sudden  and  gorgeous  drama,  the  sunny  and  ample  lands, 
The  long  and  varied  stretch  from  Puget  sound  to  Colorado  south, 
Lands  bathed  in  sweeter,  rarer,  healthier  air,  valleys  and  mountain 

cliffs, 
The  fields  of  Nature  long  prepared  and  fallow,  the  silent,  cyclic 

chemistry, 

The  slow  and  steady  ages  plodding,  the  unoccupied  surface  ripen 
ing,  the  rich  ores  forming  beneath  ; 
At  last  the  New  arriving,  assuming,  taking  possession, 
A  swarming  and  busy  race  settling  and  organizing  everywhere, 
Ships  coming  in  from  the  whole  round  world,  and  going  out  to 

the  whole  world, 

To  India  and  China  and  Australia  and  the  thousand  island  para 
dises  of  the  Pacific, 
Populous  cities,  the  latest  inventions,  the  steamers  on  the  rivers, 

the  railroads,  with  many  a  thrifty  farm,  with  machinery, 
And  wool  and  wheat  and  the  grape,  and  diggings  of  yellow  gold. 


A  SONG  FOR  OCCUPATIONS.  169 


But  more  in  you  than  these,  lands  of  the  Western  shore, 

(These  but  the  means,  the  implements,  the  standing-ground,) 

I  see  in  you,  certain  to  come,  the  promise  of  thousands  of  years, 

till  now  deferr'd, 
Promis'd  to  be  fulfill'd,  our  common  kind,  the  race. 

The  new  society  at  last,  proportionate  to  Nature, 

In  man  of  you,  more  than  your  mountain  peaks  or  stalwart  trees 

imperial, 
In  woman  more,  far  more,  than  all  your  gold  or  vines,  or  even 

vital  air. 

Fresh  come,  to  a  new  world  indeed,  yet  long  prepared, 

I  see  the  genius  of  the  modern,  child  of  the  real  and  ideal, 

Clearing  the  ground  for  broad  humanity,  the  true  America,  heir 

of  the  past  so  grand, 
To  build  a  grander  future. 


A  SONG  FOR  OCCUPATIONS. 

I 

A  SONG  for  occupations  ! 
In  the  labor  of  engines  and  trades  and  the  labor  of  fields 

I  find  the  developments, 
And  find  the  eternal  meanings. 

Workmen  and  Workwomen  ! 

Were  all  educations  practical  and  ornamental  well  display'd  out 

of  me,  what  would  it  amount  to  ? 
Were  I  as  the  head  teacher,  charitable  proprietor,  wise  statesman, 

what  would  it  amount  to  ? 
Were  I  to  you  as  the  boss  employing  and  paying  you,  would  that 

satisfy  you  ? 

The  learn'd,  virtuous,  benevolent,  and  the  usual  terms, 
A  man  like  me  and  never  the  usual  terms. 

Neither  a  servant  nor  a  master  I, 

I  take  no  sooner  a  large  price  than  a  small  price,  I  will  have  my 

own  whoever  enjoys  me, 
I  will  be  even  with  you  and  you  shall  be  even  with  me. 


17°  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

If  you  stand  at  work  in  a  shop  I  stand  as  nigh  as  the  nighest  in 

the  same  shop, 
If  you  bestow  gifts  on  your  brother  or  dearest  friend  I  demand  as 

good  as  your  brother  or  dearest  friend, 
If  your  lover,  husband,  wife,  is  welcome  by  day  or  night,  I  must 

be  personally  as  welcome, 
If  you  become  degraded,  criminal,  ill,  then  I  become  so  for  your 

sake, 
If  you  remember  your  foolish  and  outlaw'd  deeds,  do  you  think 

I  cannot  remember  my  own  foolish  and  outlaw'd  deeds  ? 
If  you  carouse  at  the  table  I  carouse  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 

table, 
If  you  meet  some  stranger  in  the  streets  and  love  him  or  her,  why 

I  often  meet  strangers  in  the  street  and  love  them. 

Why  what  have  you  thought  of  yourself? 

Is  it  you  then  that  thought  yourself  less  ? 

Is  it  you  that  thought  the  President  greater  than  you  ? 

Or  the  rich  better  off  than  you  ?  or  the  educated  wiser  than  you  ? 

(Because  you  are  greasy  or  pimpled,  or  were  once  drunk,  or  a 

thief, 

Or  that  you  are  diseas'd,  or  rheumatic,  or  a  prostitute, 
Or  from  frivolity  or  impotence,  or  that  you  are  no  scholar  and 

never  saw  your  name  in  print, 
Do  you  give  in  that  you  are  any  less  immortal  ?) 


Souls  of  men  and  women  !  it  is  not  you  I  call  unseen,  unheard, 

untouchable  and  untouching, 
It  is  not  you  I  go  argue  pro  and  con  about,  and  to  settle  whether 

you  are  alive  or  no, 
I  own  publicly  who  you  are, if  nobody  else  owns. 

Grown,  half-grown  and  babe,  of  this  country  and  every  country,  in 
doors  and  out-doors,  one  just  as  much  as  the  other,  I  see, 
And  all  else  behind  or  through  them. 

The  wife,  and  she  is  not  one  jot  less  than  the  husband, 
The  daughter,  and  she  is  just  as  good  as  the  son, 
The  mother,  and  she  is  every  bit  as  much  as  the  father. 

Offspring  of  ignorant  and  poor,  boys  apprenticed  to  trades, 
Young  fellows  working  on  farms  and  old  fellows  working  on  farms. 
Sailor-men,  merchant-men,  coasters,  immigrants, 


A  SONG  FOR  OCCUPATIONS.  17 l 

All  these  I  see,  but  nigher  and  farther  the  same  I  see, 
None  shall  escape  me  and  none  shall  wish  to  escape  me. 

I  bring  what  you  much  need  yet  always  have, 
Not  money,  amours,  dress,  eating,  erudition,  but  as  good, 
I  send  no  agent  or  medium,  offer  no  representative  of  value,  but 
offer  the  value  itself. 

There  is  something  that  comes  to  one  now  and  perpetually, 

It  is  not  what  is  printed,  preach'd,  discussed,  it  eludes  discussion 

and  print, 

It  is  not  to  be  put  in  a  book,  it  is  not  in  this  book, 
It  is  for  you  whoever  you  are,  it  is  no  farther  from  you  than  your 

hearing  and  sight  are  from  you, 
It  is  hinted  by  nearest,  commonest,  readiest,  it  is  ever  provoked 

by  them. 

You  may  read  in  many  languages,  yet  read  nothing  about  it, 

You  may  read  the  President's  message  and  read  nothing  about  it 

there, 
Nothing  in  the  reports  from  the    State    department    or  Treasury 

department,  or  in  the  daily  papers  or  weekly  papers, 
Or  in   the   census   or   revenue    returns,    prices   current,   or  any 

accounts  of  stock. 

3 

The  sun  and  stars  that  float  in  the  open  air, 

The  apple-shaped  earth  and  we  upon  it,  surely  the  drift  of  them 

is  something  grand, 
I  do  not  know  what  it  is  except  that  it  is  grand,  and  that  it  is 

happiness, 
And  that  the  enclosing  purport  of  us  here  is  not  a  speculation  or 

bon-mot  or  reconnoissance, 
And  that  it  is  not  something  which  by  luck  may  turn  out  well  for 

us,  and  without  luck  must  be  a  failure  for  us, 
And   not   something  which   may  yet   be   retracted   in   a  certain 

contingency. 

The  light  and  shade,  the  curious  sense  of  body  and  identity,  the 
greed  that  with  perfect  complaisance  devours  all  things, 

The  endless  pride  and  outstretching   of  man,  unspeakable  joys 
and  sorrows, 

The  wonder  every  one  sees  in  every  one  else  he  sees,  and  the 
wonders  that  fill  each  minute  of  time  forever, 

What  have  you  reckon'd  them  for,  camerado  ? 
12 


I72  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Have  you  reckon'd  them  for  your  trade  or  farm-work  ?  or  for  the 

profits  of  your  store  ? 
Or  to  achieve  yourself  a  position?  or  to  fill  a  gentleman's  leisure, 

or  a  lady's  leisure  ? 

Have  you  reckon'd  that  the  landscape  took  substance  and  form 
that  it  might  be  painted  in  a  picture  ? 

Or  men  and  women  that  they  might  be  written  of,  and  songs  sung  ? 

Or  the  attraction  of  gravity,  and  the  great  laws  and  harmonious 
combinations  and  the  fluids  of  the  air,  as  subjects  for  the 
savans  ? 

Or  the  brown  land  and  the  blue  sea  for  maps  and  charts  ? 

Or  the  stars  to  be  put  in  constellations  and  named  fancy  names  ? 

Or  that  the  growth  of  seeds  is  for  agricultural  tables,  or  agricul 
ture  itself  ? 

Old  institutions,  these  arts,  libraries,  legends,  collections,  and  the 
practice  handed  along  in  manufactures,  will  we  rate  them 
so  high? 

Will  we  rate  our  cash  and  business  high?  I  have  no  objection, 
I   rate   them   as   high   as  the  highest  —  then  a  child  born  of  a 
woman  and  man  I  rate  beyond  all  rate. 

We  thought  our  Union  grand,  and  our  Constitution  grand, 
I  do  not  say  they  are  not  grand  and  good,  for  they  are, 
I  am  this  day  just  as  much  in  love  with  them  as  you, 
Then  I  am  in  love  with  You,  and  with  all  my  fellows  upon  the 
earth. 

We  consider  bibles  and  religions  divine  —  I  do  not  say  they  are 

not  divine, 
I  say  they  have  all  grown  out  of  you,  and  may  grow  out  of  you 

still, 

It  is  not  they  who  give  the  life,  it  is  you  who  give  the  life, 
Leaves  are  not  more  shed  from  the  trees,  or  trees  from  the  earth, 

than  they  are  shed  out  of  you. 

4 

The  sum  of  all  known  reverence  I  add  up  in  you  whoever  you  are, 
The  President  is  there  in  the  White  House  for  you,  it  is  not  you 

who  are  here  for  him, 

The  Secretaries  act  in  their  bureaus  for  you,  not  you  here  for  them, 
The  Congress  convenes  every  Twelfth-month  for  you, 
Laws,  courts,  the  forming  of  States,  the  charters  of  cities,  the 

going  and  coming  of  commerce  and  mails,  are  all  for  you. 


A  SONG  FOR  OCCUPATIONS.  173 


List  close  my  scholars  dear, 

Doctrines,  politics  and  civilization  exurge  from  you, 

Sculpture  and  monuments  and  any  thing  inscribed  anywhere  are 

tallied  in  you, 
The  gist  of  histories  and  statistics  as  far  back  as  the  records  reach 

is  in  you  this  hour,  and  myths  and  tales  the  same, 
If  you  were  not  breathing  and  walking  here,  where  would  they 

all  be? 
The  most  renown'd  poems  would  be  ashes,  orations  and  plays 

would  be  vacuums. 

All  architecture  is  what  you  do  to  it  when  you  look  upon  it, 
(Did  you  think  it  was  in  the  white  or  gray  stone  ?  or  the  lines  of 
the  arches  and  cornices  ?) 

All  music  is  what  awakes  from  you  when  you  are  reminded  by  the 

instruments, 
It  is  not  the  violins  and  the  cornets,  it  is  not  the  oboe  nor  the 

beating  drums,  nor  the  score  of  the  baritone  singer  singing 

his  sweet  romanza,  nor  that  of  the  men's  chorus,  nor  that 

of  the  women's  chorus, 
It  is  nearer  and  farther  than  they. 

5 

Will  the  whole  come  back  then? 
Can  each  see  signs  of  the  best  by  a  look  in  the  looking-glass  ?  is 

there  nothing  greater  or  more  ? 
Does  all  sit  there  with  you,  with  the  mystic  unseen  soul  ? 

Strange  and  hard  that  paradox  true  I  give, 
Objects  gross  and  the  unseen  soul  are  one. 

House-building,  measuring,  sawing  the  boards, 

Blacksmithing,  glass-blowing,  nail-making,  coopering,  tin-roofing, 

shingle-dressing, 
Ship-joining,  dock-building,  fish-curing,  flagging  of  sidewalks  by 

flaggers, 
The  pump,  the  pile-driver,  the  great  derrick,  the  coal-kiln  and 

brick-kiln, 
Coal-mines  and  all  that  is  down  there,  the  lamps  in  the  darkness, 

echoes,  songs,  what  meditations,  what  vast  native  thoughts 

looking  through  smutch'd  faces, 
Iron-works,   forge-fires  in  the  mountains  or  by  river-banks,  men 

around  feeling  the  melt  with  huge  crowbars,  lumps  of  ore, 

the  due  combining  of  ore,  limestone,  coal, 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


The  blast-furnace  and  the  puddling-furnace,  the  loup-lump  at  the 
bottom  of  the  melt  at  last,  the  rolling-mill,  the  stumpy 
bars  of  pig-iron,  the  strong  clean-shaped  T-rail  for  rail 
roads, 

Oil-works,  silk-works,  white-lead-works,  the  sugar-house,  steam- 
saws,  the  great  mills  and  factories, 

Stone-cutting,  shapely  trimmings  for  facades  or  window  or  door- 
lintels,  the  mallet,  the  tooth-chisel,  the  jib  to  protect  the 
thumb, 

The  calking-iron,  the  kettle  of  boiling  vault-cement,  and  the  fire 
under  the  kettle, 

The  cotton-bale,  the  stevedore's  hook,  the  saw  and  buck  of  the 
sawyer,  the  mould  of  the  moulder,  the  working-knife  of 
the  butcher,  the  ice-saw,  and  all  the  work  with  ice, 

The  work  and  tools  of  the  rigger,  grappler,  sail-maker,  block- 
maker, 

Goods  of  gutta-percha,  papier-mache",  colors,  brushes,  brush- 
making,  glazier's  implements, 

The  veneer  and  glue-pot,  the  confectioner's  ornaments,  the 
decanter  and  glasses,  the  shears  and  flat-iron, 

The  awl  and  knee-strap,  the  pint  measure  and  quart  measure,  the 
counter  and  stool,  the  writing-pen  of  quill  or  metal,  the 
making  of  all  sorts  of  edged  tools, 

The  brewery,  brewing,  the  malt,  the  vats,  every  thing  that  is  done 
by  brewers,  wine-makers,  vinegar-makers, 

Leather-dressing,  coach-making,  boiler-making,  rope-twisting,  dis 
tilling,  sign-painting,  lime-burning,  cotton-picking,  electro 
plating,  electrotyping,  stereotyping, 

Stave-machines,  planing-machines,  reaping-machines,  ploughing- 
machines,  thrashing-machines,  steam  wagons, 

The  cart  of  the  carman,  the  omnibus,  the  ponderous  dray, 

Pyrotechny,  letting  off  color 'd  fireworks  at  night,  fancy  figures  and 
jets; 

Beef  on  the  butcher's  stall,  the  slaughter-house  of  the  butcher,  the 
butcher  in  his  killing-clothes, 

The  pens  of  live  pork,  the  killing-hammer,  the  hog-hook,  the 
scalder's  tub,  gutting,  the  cutter's  cleaver,  the  packer's  maul, 
and  the  plenteous  winterwork  of  pork-packing, 

Flour-works,  grinding  of  wheat,  rye,  maize,  rice,  the  barrels  and 
the  half  and  quarter  barrels,  the  loaded  barges,  the  high 
piles  on  wharves  and  levees, 

The  men  and  the  work  of  the  men  on  ferries,  railroads,  coasters, 
fish-boats,  canals ; 

The  hourly  routine  of  your  own  or  any  man's  life,  the  shop,  yard, 
store,  or  factory, 


A  SONG  FOR  OCCUPATIONS.  1/5 

These  shows  all  near  you  by  day  and  night  —  workman  !  whoever 
you  are,  your  daily  life  ! 

In  that  and  them  the  heft  of  the  heaviest  —  in  that  and  them  far 
more  than  you  estimated,  (and  far  less  also,) 

In  them  realities  for  you  and  me,  in  them  poems  for  you  and  me, 

In  them,  not  yourself —  you  and  your  soul  enclose  all  things,  re 
gardless  of  estimation, 

In  them  the  development  good  —  in  them  all  themes,  hints,  possi 
bilities. 

I  do  not  affirm  that  what  you  see  beyond  is  futile,  I  do  not  advise 

you  to  stop, 

I  do  not  say  leadings  you  thought  great  are  not  great, 
But  I  say  that  none  lead  to  greater  than  these  lead  to. 


Will  you  seek  afar  off  ?  you  surely  come  back  at  last, 

In  things  best  known  to  you  finding  the  best,  or  as  good  as  the 

best, 

In  folks  nearest  to  you  finding  the  sweetest,  strongest,  lovingest, 
Happiness,  knowledge,  not  in  another  place  but  this  place,  not  for 

another  hour  but  this  hour, 
Man  in  the  first   you    see    or  touch,  always   in   friend,  brother, 

nighest  neighbor  —  woman  in  mother,  sister,  wife, 
The  popular  tastes  and  employments  taking  precedence  in  poems 

or  anywhere, 
You  workwomen  and  workmen  of  these  States  having  your  own 

divine  and  strong  life, 
And  all  else  giving  place  to  men  and  women  like  you. 

When  the  psalm  sings  instead  of  the  singer, 

When  the  script  preaches  instead  of  the  preacher, 

When  the  pulpit  descends  and  goes  instead  of  the  carver  that 

carved  the  supporting  desk, 
When  I  can  touch  the  body  of  books  by  night  or  by  day,  and 

when  they  touch  my  body  back  again, 
When  a  university  course  convinces  like  a  slumbering  woman  and 

child  convince, 
When  the  minted  gold  in  the  vault  smiles  like  the  night-watchman's 

daughter, 
When  warrantee  deeds  loafe  in  chairs  opposite  and  are  my  friendly 

companions, 
I  intend  to  reach  them  my  hand,  and  make  as  much  of  them  as 

I  do  of  men  and  women  like  you. 


176  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

A  SONG  OF  THE  ROLLING  EARTH. 


A  SONG  of  the  rolling  earth,  and  of  words  according, 
Were  you  thinking  that  those  were  the  words,  those  upright 

lines  ?  those  curves,  angles,  dots  ? 
No,  those  are  not  the  words,  the  substantial  words  are  in  the 

ground  and  sea, 
They  are  in  the  air,  they  are  in  you. 

Were  you  thinking  that  those  were  the  words,  those  delicious  sounds 

out  of  your  friends'  mouths  ? 
No,  the  real  words  are  more  delicious  than  they. 

Human  bodies  are  words,  myriads  of  words, 

(In  the  best  poems  re-appears  the  body,  man's  or  woman's,  well- 
shaped,  natural,  gay, 

Every  part  able,  active,  receptive,  without  shame  or  the  need  of 
shame.) 

Air,  soil,  water,  fire  —  those  are  words, 

I  myself  am  a  word  with  them  —  my  qualities  interpenetrate  with 

theirs  —  my  name  is  nothing  to  them, 
Though  it  were  told  in  the  three  thousand  languages,  what  would 

air,  soil,  water,  fire,  know  of  my  name  ? 

A  healthy  presence,  a  friendly  or  commanding  gesture,  are  words, 

sayings,  meanings, 
The  charms  that  go  with  the  mere  looks  of  some  men  and  women, 

are  sayings  and  meanings  also. 

The  workmanship  of  souls  is  by  those  inaudible  words  of  the  earth, 
The  masters  know  the  earth's  words  and  use  them  more  than 
audible  words. 

Amelioration  is  one  of  the  earth's  words, 
The  earth  neither  lags  nor  hastens, 

It  has  all  attributes,  growths,  effects,  latent  in  itself  from  the  jump, 
It  is  not  half  beautiful  only,  defects  and  excrescences  show  just  as 
much  as  perfections  show. 

The  earth  does  not  withhold,  it  is  generous  enough, 
The  truths  of  the  earth  continually  wait,  they  are  not  so  conceal'd 
either, 


A  SONG  OF  THE  ROLLING  EARTH. 


They  are  calm,  subtle,  untransmissible  by  print, 

They  are  imbued  through  all  things  conveying  themselves  willingly, 

Conveying  a  sentiment,  and  invitation,  I  utter  and  utter, 

I  speak  not,  yet  if  you  hear  me  not  of  what  avail  am  I  to  you? 

To  bear,  to  better,  lacking  these  of  what  avail  am  I  ? 

f  Accouche  !  accouchez  ! 

Will  you  rot  your  own  fruit  in  yourself  there? 

Will  you  squat  and  stifle  there  ?) 

The  earth  does  not  argue, 

Is  not  pathetic,  has  no  arrangements, 

Does  not  scream,  haste,  persuade,  threaten,  promise, 

Makes  no  discriminations,  has  no  conceivable  failures, 

Closes  nothing,  refuses  nothing,  shuts  none  out, 

Of  all  the  powers,  objects,  states,  it  notifies,  shuts  none  out. 

The  earth  does  not  exhibit  itself  nor  refuse  to  exhibit  itself,  pos 

sesses  still  underneath, 
Underneath  the  ostensible  sounds,  the  august  chorus  of  heroes,  the 

wail  of  slaves, 
Persuasions  of  lovers,  curses,  gasps  of  the  dying,  laughter  of  young 

people,  accents  of  bargainers, 
Underneath  these  possessing  words  that  never  fail. 

To  her  children  the  words  of  the  eloquent  dumb  great  mother 

never  fail, 
The  true  words  do  not  fail,  for  motion  does  not  fail  and  reflection 

does  not  fail, 
Also  the  day  and  night  do  not  fail,  and  the  voyage  we  pursue  does 

not  fail. 

Of  the  interminable  sisters, 

Of  the  ceaseless  cotillons  of  sisters, 

Of  the  centripetal  and  centrifugal  sisters,  the  elder  and  younger 

sisters, 
The  beautiful  sister  we  know  dances  on  with  the  rest. 

With  her  ample  back  towards  every  beholder, 

With  the  fascinations  of  youth  and  the  equal  fascinations  of  age, 

Sits  she  whom  I  too  love  like  the  rest,  sits  undisturb'd, 

Holding  up  in  her  hand  what  has  the  character  of  a  mirror,  while 

her  eyes  glance  back  from  it, 
Glance  as  she  sits,  inviting  none,  denying  none, 
Holding  a  mirror  day  and  night  tirelessly  before  her  own  face. 


178  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Seen  at  hand  or  seen  at  a  distance, 

Duly  the  twenty-four  appear  in  public  every  day, 

Duly  approach  and  pass  with  their  companions  or  a  companion, 

Looking  from  no  countenances  of  their  own,  but  from  the  counte 

nances  of  those  who  are  with  them, 

From  the  countenances  of  children  or  women  or  the  manly  coun 
tenance, 

From  the  open  countenances  of  animals  or  from  inanimate  things, 
From  the  landscape  or  waters  or  from  the  exquisite  apparition  of 

the  sky, 

From  our  countenances,  mine  and  yours,  faithfully  returning  them, 
Every  day  in  public  appearing  without  fail,  but  never  twice  with 
the  same  companions. 

Embracing  man,  embracing  all,  proceed  the  three  hundred  and 

sixty-five  resistlessly  round  the  sun ; 
Embracing  all,  soothing,  supporting,  follow  close  three  hundred 

and  sixty-five  offsets  of  the  first,  sure  and  necessary  as  they. 

Tumbling  on  steadily,  nothing  dreading, 

Sunshine,  storm,  cold,  heat,  forever  withstanding,  passing,  carrying, 

The  soul's  realization  and  determination  still  inheriting, 

The  fluid  vacuum  around  and  ahead  still  entering  and  dividing, 

No  balk  retarding,  no  anchor  anchoring,  on  no  rock  striking, 

Swift,  glad,  content,  unbereav'd,  nothing  losing, 

Of  all  able  and  ready  at  any  time  to  give  strict  account, 

The  divine  ship  sails  the  divine  sea. 


Whoever  you  are  !  motion  and  reflection  are  especially  for  you, 
The  divine  ship  sails  the  divine  sea  for  you. 

Whoever  you  are  !  you  are  he  or  she  for  whom  the  earth  is  solid 

and  liquid, 

You  are  he  or  she  for  whom  the  sun  and  moon  hang  in  the  sky, 
For  none  more  than  you  are  the  present  and  the  past, 
For  none  more  than  you  is  immortality. 

Each  man  to  himself  and  each  woman  to  herselt,  is  the  word  of 

the  past  and  present,  and  the  true  word  of  immortality ; 
No  one  can  acquire  for  another  —  not  one, 
Not  one  can  grow  for  another  —  not  one. 

The  song  is  to  the  singer,  and  comes  back  most  to  him, 
The  teaching  is  to  the  teacher,  and  comes  back  most  to  him, 


A  SONG  OF  THE  ROLLING  EARTH.  179 

The  murder  is  to  the  murderer,  and  comes  back  most  to  him, 

The  theft  is  to  the  thief,  and  comes  back  most  to  him, 

The  love  is  to  the  lover,  and  comes  back  most  to  him, 

The  gift  is  to  the  giver,  and  comes  back  most  to  him  —  it  cannot 

fail, 
The  oration  is  to  the  orator,  the  acting  is  to  the  actor  and  actress 

not  to  the  audience, 
And  no  man  understands  any  greatness  or  goodness  but  his  own, 

or  the  indication  of  his  own. 

3 

1  swear  the  earth  shall  surely  be  complete  to  him  or  her  who  shall 

be  complete, 
The  earth  remains  jagged  and  broken  only  to  him  or  her  who 

remains  jagged  and  broken. 

I  swear  there  is  no  greatness  or  power  that   does   not   emulate 

those  of  the  earth, 
There  can  be  no  theory  of  any  account  unless  it  corroborate  the 

theory  of  the  earth, 
No  politics,  song,  religion,  behavior,  or  what  not,  is  of  account, 

unless  it  compare  with  the  amplitude  of  the  earth, 
Unless  it  face  the  exactness,  vitality,  impartiality,  rectitude  of  the 

earth. 

I  swear  I  begin  to  see  love  with  sweeter  spasms  than  that  which 

responds  love, 
It  is  that  which  contains   itself,  which   never  invites   and   never 

refuses. 

I  swear  I  begin  to  see  little  or  nothing  in  audible  words, 

All  merges  toward  the  presentation  of  the  unspoken  meanings 
of  the  earth, 

Toward  him  who  sings  the  songs  of  the  body  and  of  the  truths 
of  the  earth, 

Toward  him  who  makes  the  dictionaries  of  words  that  print  can 
not  touch. 

I  swear  I  see  what  is  better  than  to  tell  the  best, 
It  is  always  to  leave  the  best  untold. 

When  I  undertake  to  tell  the  best  I  find  I  cannot, 
My  tongue  is  ineffectual  on  its  pivots, 
My  breath  will  not  be  obedient  to  its  organs, 
I  become  a  dumb  man. 


180  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

The  best  of  the  earth  cannot  be  told  anyhow,  all  or  any  is  best, 
It  is  not  what  you  anticipated,  it  is  cheaper,  easier,  nearer, 
Things  are  not  dismiss'd  from  the  places  they  held  before, 
The  earth  is  just  as  positive  and  direct  as  it  was  before, 
Facts,  religions,  improvements,  politics,  trades,  are  as  real  as  before, 
But  the  soul  is  also  real,  it  too  is  positive  and  direct, 
No  reasoning,  no  proof  has  establish'd  it, 
Undeniable  growth  has  establish'd  it. 

4 

These  to  echo  the  tones  of  souls  and  the  phrases  of  souls, 
(If  they  did  not  echo  the  phrases  of  souls  what  were  they  then? 
If  they  had  not  reference  to  you  in  especial  what  were  they  then  ?) 

I  swear  I  will  never  henceforth  have  to  do  with  the  faith  that  tells 

the  best, 
I  will  have  to  do  only  with  that  faith  that  leaves  the  best  untold. 

Say  on,  sayers  !  sing  on,  singers  ! 
Delve  !  mould  !  pile  the  words  of  the  earth ! 
Work  on,  age  after  age,  nothing  is  to  be  lost, 
It  may  have  to  wait  long,  but  it  will  certainly  come  in  use, 
When  the  materials  are  all  prepared  and  ready,  the  architects  shall 
appear. 

I  swear  to  you  the  architects  shall  appear  without  fail, 

I  swear  to  you  they  will  understand  you  and  justify  you, 

The  greatest  among  them  shall  be  he  who  best  knows  you,  and 

encloses  all  and  is  faithful  to  all, 
He  and  the  rest  shall  not  forget  you,  they  shall  perceive  that  you 

are  not  an  iota  less  than  they, 
You  shall  be  fully  glorified  in  them. 


YOUTH,    DAY,    OLD    AGE   AND   NIGHT. 

YOUTH,  large,  lusty,  loving — youth  full  of  grace,  force,  fascination, 
Do  you  know  that  Old  Age  may  come  after  you  with  equal  grace, 
force,  fascination? 

Day  full-blown  and  splendid  —  day  of  the  immense  sun,  action, 

ambition,  laughter, 
The  Night  follows  close  with  millions   of  suns,  and  sleep  and 

restoring  darkness. 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE.  181 


BIRDS  OF   PASSAGE. 


SONG   OF   THE   UNIVERSAL. 

i 

COME  said  the  Muse, 
Sing  me  a  song  no  poet  yet  has  chanted, 
Sing  me  the  universal. 

In  this  broad  earth  of  ours, 
Amid  the  measureless  grossness  and  the  slag, 
Enclosed  and  safe  within  its  central  heart, 
Nestles  the  seed  perfection. 

By  every  life  a  share  or  more  or  less, 

None  born  but  it  is  born,  conceal'd  or  unconceal'd  the  seed  is 
waiting. 


Lo  !  keen-eyed  towering  science, 

As  from  tall  peaks  the  modern  overlooking, 

Successive  absolute  fiats  issuing. 

Yet  again,  lo  !  the  soul,  above  all  science, 

For  it  has  history  gather'd  like  husks  around  the  globe, 

For  it  the  entire  star-myriads  roll  through  the  sky. 

In  spiral  routes  by  long  detours, 
(As  a  much-tacking  ship  upon  the  sea,) 
For  it  the  partial  to  the  permanent  flowing, 
For  it  the  real  to  the  ideal  tends. 

For  it  the  mystic  evolution, 

Not  the  right  only  justified,  what  we  call  evil  also  justified. 

Forth  from  their  masks,  no  matter  what, 

From  the  huge  festering  trunk,  from  craft  and  guile  and  tears, 

Health  to  emerge  and  joy,  joy  universal. 

Out  of  the  bulk,  the  morbid  and  the  shallow, 

Out  of  the  bad  majority,  the  varied  countless  frauds  of  men  and 

states, 

Electric,  antiseptic  yet,  cleaving,  suffusing  all, 
Only  the  good  is  universal. 


1 82  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

3 

Over  the  mountain-growths  disease  and  sorrow, 
An  uncaught  bird  is  ever  hovering,  hovering, 
High  in  the  purer,  happier  air. 

From  imperfection's  murkiest  cloud, 
Darts  always  forth  one  ray  of  perfect  light, 
One  flash  of  heaven's  glory. 

To  fashion's,  custom's  discord, 
To  the  mad  Babel-din,  the  deafening  orgies, 
Soothing  each  lull  a  strain  is  heard,  just  heard, 
From  some  far  shore  the  final  chorus  sounding. 

O  the  blest  eyes,  the  happy  hearts, 

That  see,  that  know  the  guiding  thread  so  fine, 

Along  the  mighty  labyrinth. 


And  them  America, 

For  the  scheme's  culmination,  its  thought  and  its  reality, 

For  these  (not  for  thyself)  thou  hast  arrived. 

Thou  too  surroundest  all, 

Embracing  carrying  welcoming  all,  thou  too  by  pathways  broad 

and  new, 
To  the  ideal  tendest. 

The  measur'd  faiths  of  other  lands,  the  grandeurs  of  the  past, 
Are  not  for  thee,  but  grandeurs  of  thine  own, 
Deific  faiths  and  amplitudes,  absorbing,  comprehending  all, 
All  eligible  to  all. 

All,  all  for  immortality, 

Love  like  the  light  silently  wrapping  all, 

Nature's  amelioration  blessing  all, 

The  blossoms,  fruits  of  ages,  orchards  divine  and  certain, 

Forms,  objects,  growths,  humanities,  to  spiritual  images  ripening. 

Give  me  O  God  to  sing  that  thought, 

Give  me,  give  him  or  her  I  love  this  quenchless  faith, 

In  Thy  ensemble,  whatever  else  withheld  withhold  not  from  us, 

Belief  in  plan  of  Thee  enclosed  in  Time  and  Space, 

Health,  peace,  salvation  universal. 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE.  183 


Is  it  a  dream  ? 

Nay  but  the  lack  of  it  the  dream, 

And  failing  it  life's  lore  and  wealth  a  dream, 

And  all  the  world  a  dream. 


PIONEERS!    O   PIONEERS! 

COME  my  tan-faced  children, 
Follow  well  in  order,  get  your  weapons  ready, 
Have  you  your  pistols  ?  have  you  your  sharp-edged  axes  ? 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

For  we  cannot  tarry  here, 

We  must  march  my  darlings,  we  must  bear  the  brunt  of  danger, 
We  the  youthful  sinewy  races,  all  the  rest  on  us  depend, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

O  you  youths,  Western  youths, 

So  impatient,  full  of  action,  full  of  manly  pride  and  friendship, 
Plain  I  see  you  Wrestern  youths,  see  you  tramping  with  the  fore< 
most, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

Have  the  elder  races  halted  ? 
Do  they  droop  and  end  their  lesson,  wearied  over  there  beyond 

the  seas? 
We  take  up  the  task  eternal,  and  the  burden  and  the  lesson, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

All  the  past  we  leave  behind, 

We  debouch  upon  a  newer  mightier  world,  varied  world, 
Fresh  and  strong  the  world  we  seize,  world  of  labor  and  the  march, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

We  detachments  steady  throwing, 

Down  the  edges,  through  the  passes,  up  the  mountains  steep, 
Conquering,  holding,  daring,  venturing  as  we  go  the  unknown  ways, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

We  primeval  forests  felling, 
We  the  rivers  stemming,  vexing  we  and  piercing  deep  the  mines 

within, 
We  the  surface  broad  surveying,  we  the  virgin  soil  upheaving, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 


184  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Colorado  men  are  we, 
From  the  peaks  gigantic,  from  the  great  sierras  and  the  high 

plateaus, 
From  the  mine  and  from  the  gully,  from  the  hunting  trail  we  come, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

From  Nebraska,  from  Arkansas, 
Central  inland  race  are  we,  from  Missouri,  with  the  continental 

blood  intervein'd, 
All  the  hands  of  comrades  clasping,  all  the  Southern,  all  the 

Northern , 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers ! 

O  resistless  restless  race ! 

O  beloved  race  in  all !  O  my  breast  aches  with  tender  love  for  all ! 
O  I  mourn  and  yet  exult,  I  am  rapt  with  love  for  all, 

Pioneers !  O  pioneers ! 

Raise  the  mighty  mother  mistress, 
Waving  high  the  delicate  mistress,  over  all  the  stany  mistress, 

(bend  your  heads  all,) 
Raise  the  fang'd  and  warlike  mistress,  stern,  impassive,  weapon'd 

mistress, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

See  my  children,  resolute  children, 

By  those  swarms  upon  our  rear  we  must  never  yield  or  falter, 
Ages  back  in  ghostly  millions  frowning  there  behind  us  urging, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

On  and  on  the  compact  ranks, 
With  accessions  ever  waiting,  with  the  places  of  the  dead  quickly 

fill'd, 
Through  the  battle,  through  defeat,  moving  yet  and  never  stopping, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

O  to  die  advancing  on  ! 

Are  there  some  of  us  to  droop  and  die?  has  the  hour  come? 
Then  upon  the  march  we  fittest  die,  soon  and  sure  the  gap  is  fill'd, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

All  the  pulses  of  the  world, 

Falling  in  they  beat  for  us,  with  the  Western  movement  beat, 
Holding  single  or  together,  steady  moving  to  the  front,  all  for  us, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE.  185 

Life's  involv'd  and  varied  pageants, 
All  the  forms  and  shows,  all  the  workmen  at  their  work, 
All  the  seamen  and  the  landsmen,  all  the  masters  with  their  slaves, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

All  the  hapless  silent  lovers, 

All  the  prisoners  in  the  prisons,  all  the  righteous  and  the  wicked, 
All  the  joyous,  all  the  sorrowing,  all  the  living,  all  the  dying, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

I  too  with  my  soul  and  body, 
We,  a  curious  trio,  picking,  wandering  on  our  way, 
Through  these  shores   amid   the   shadows,  with  the   apparitions 
pressing, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

Lo,  the  darting  bowling  orb  ! 

Lo,  the  brother  orbs  around,  all  the  clustering  suns  and  planets, 
All  the  dazzling  days,  all  the  mystic  nights  with  dreams, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

These  are  of  us,  they  are  with  us, 
All  for  primal  needed  work,  while  the  followers  there  in  embryo 

wait  behind, 
We  to-day's  procession  heading,  we  the  route  for  travel  clearing, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

O  you  daughters  of  the  West ! 

O  you  young  and  elder  daughters  !  O  you  mothers  and  you  wives  I 
Never  must  you  be  divided,  in  our  ranks  you  move  united, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

Minstrels  latent  on  the  prairies  ! 
(Shrouded  bards  of  other  lands,  you  may  rest,  you  have  done 

your  work,) 
Soon  I  hear  you  coming  warbling,  soon  you  rise  and  tramp  amid  us, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

Not  for  delectations  sweet, 

Not  the  cushion  and  the  slipper,  not  the  peaceful  and  the  studious 
Not  the  riches  safe  and  palling,  not  for  us  the  tame  enjoyment. 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

Do  the  feasters  gluttonous  feast  ? 

Bo  the  corpulent  sleepers  sleep  ?  have  they  lock'd  and  bolted  doors  ? 
Still  be  ours  the  diet  hard,  and  the  blanket  on  the  ground, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 


lS6  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


Has  the  night  descended? 
Was  the  road  of  late  so  toilsome  ?  did  we  stop  discouraged  nodding 

on  our  way  ? 
Yet  a  passing  hour  I  yield  you  in  your  tracks  to  pause  oblivious, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

Till  with  sound  of  trumpet, 
Far,  far  off  the  daybreak  call  —  hark  !  how  loud  and  clear  I  hear 

it  wind, 
Swift !  to  trie  head  of  the  army  !  —  swift !  spring  to  your  places, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

TO  YOU. 

WHOEVER  you  are,  I  fear  you  are  walking  the  walks  of  dreams, 
I  fear  these  supposed  realities  are  to  melt  from  under  your  feet 

and  hands, 
Even  now  your   features,  joys,   speech,   house,  trade,  manners, 

troubles,  follies,  costume,  crimes,  dissipate  away  from  you, 
Your  true  soul  and  body  appear  before  me. 
They  stand  forth   out  of  affairs,  out  of  commerce,  shops,  work, 

farms,  clothes,  the  house,  buying,  selling,  eating,  drinking, 

suffering,  dying. 

Whoever  you  are,  now  I  place  my  hand  upon  you,  that  you  be  my 

poem, 

I  whisper  with  my  lips  close  to  your  ear, 
I  have  loved  many  women  and  men,  but  I  love  none  better  than 

you. 

0  I  have  been  dilatory  and  dumb, 

1  should  have  made  my  way  straight  to  you  long  ago, 

(  should  have  blabb'd  nothing  but  you,  I  should  have  chanted 
nothing  but  you. 

I  will  leave  all  and  come  and  make  the  hymns  of  you, 

None  has  understood  you,  but  I  understand  you, 

None  has  done  justice  to  you,  you  have  not  done  justice  to  your 
self, 

None  but  has  found  you  imperfect,  I  only  find  no  imperfection  in 
you, 

None  but  would  subordinate  you,  I  only  am  he  who  will  never 
consent  to  subordinate  you, 

i  only  am  he  who  places  over  you  no  master,  owner,  better,  God> 
beyond  what  waits  intrinsically  in  yourself. 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE.  187 

Painters  have  painted  their  swarming  groups  and  the  centre-figure 
of  all, 

From  the  head  of  the  centre-figure  spreading  a  nimbus  of  gold- 
color'd  light, 

But  I  paint  myriads  of  heads,  but  paint  no  head  without  its  nim 
bus  of  gold-color'd  light, 

From  my  hand  from  the  brain  of  every  man  and  woman  it  streams, 
effulgently  flowing  forever. 

0  I  could  sing  such  grandeurs  and  glories  about  you  ! 

You   have  not  known  what  you  are,  you  have  slumber'd  upon 

yourself  all  your  life, 

Your  eyelids  have  been  the  same  as  closed  most  of  the  time, 
What  you  have  done  returns  already  in  mockeries, 
(Your  thrift,  knowledge,  prayers,  if  they  do  not  return  in  mock 
eries,  what  is  their  return  ?) 

The  mockeries  are  not  you, 

Underneath  them  and  within  them  I  see  you  lurk, 

1  pursue  you  where  none  else  has  pursued  you. 

Silence,  the  desk,  the  flippant  expression,  the  night,  the  accustom'd 
routine,  if  these  conceal  you  from  others  or  from  yourself, 
they  do  not  conceal  you  from  me, 

The  shaved  face,  the  unsteady  eye,  the  impure  complexion,  if  these 
balk  others  they  do  not  balk  me, 

The  pert  apparel,  the  deform'd  attitude,  drunkenness,  greed,  pre 
mature  death,  all  these  I  part  aside. 

There  is  no  endowment  in  man  or  woman  that  is  not  tallied  in 

you, 
There  is  no  virtue,  no  beauty  in  man  or  woman,  but  as  good  is  in 

you, 

No  pluck,  no  endurance  in  others,  but  as  good  is  in  you, 
No  pleasure  waiting  for  others,  but  an  equal  pleasure  waits  for  you. 

As  for  me,  I  give  nothing  to  any  one  except  I  give  the  like  care 
fully  to  you, 

1  sing  the  songs  of  the  glory  of  none,  not  God,  sooner  than  I 
sing  the  songs  of  the  glory  of  you. 

Whoever  you  are  !  claim  your  own  at  any  hazard  ! 
These  shows  of  the  East  and  West  are  tame  compared  to  you, 
These   immense    meadows,   these    interminable   rivers,   you    are 
immense  and  interminable  as  they, 
13 


1 88  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


These  furies,  elements,  storms,  motions  of  Nature,  throes  of  appar 
ent  dissolution,  you  are  he  or  she  who  is  master  or  mistress 
over  them, 

Master  or  mistress  in  your  own  right  over  Nature,  elements,  pain, 
passion,  dissolution. 

The  hopples  fall  from  your  ankles,  you  find  an  unfailing  sufficiency, 
Old   or  young,  male  or  female,  rude,  low,  rejected  by  the  rest, 

whatever  you  are  promulges  itself, 
Through  birth,  life,  death,  burial,  the  means  are  provided,  nothing 

is  scanted, 
Through  angers,  losses,  ambition,  ignorance,  ennui,  what  you  are 

picks  its  way. 

FRANCE, 

The  iBth  Year  of  these  States. 

A  GREAT  year  and  place, 

A  harsh  discordant  natal  scream  out-sounding,  to  touch  the 
mother's  heart  closer  than  any  yet. 

I  walk'd  the  shores  of  my  Eastern  sea, 

Heard  over  the  waves  the  little  voice, 

Saw  the  divine  infant  where  she  woke  mournfully  wailing,  amid  the 

roar  of  cannon,  curses,  shouts,  crash  of  falling  buildings, 
Was  not  so  sick  from  the  blood  in  the  gutters  running,  nor  from 

the  single   corpses,  nor  those  in  heaps,  nor  those  borne 

away  in  the  tumbrils, 
Was  not  so  desperate  at  the  battues  of  death  —  was  not  so  shock'd 

at  the  repeated  fusillades  of  the  guns. 

Pale,  silent,  stern,  what  could  I  say  to  that  long-accrued  retribu 
tion? 

Could  I  wish  humanity  different? 
Could  I  wish  the  people  made  of  wood  and  stone  ? 
Or  that  there  be  no  justice  in  destiny  or  time  ? 

O  Liberty  !  O  mate  for  me  ! 

Here  too  the  blaze,  the  grape-shot  and  the  axe,  in  reserve,  to 

fetch  them  out  in  case  of  need, 

Here  too,  though  long  represt,  can  never  be  destroy'd, 
Here  too  could  rise  at  last  murdering  and  ecstatic, 
Here  too  demanding  full  arrears  of  vengeance. 

Hence  I  sign  this  salute  over  the  sea, 

And  I  do  not  deny  that  terrible  red  birth  and  baptism, 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE.  189 

But  remember  the  little  voice  that  I  heard  wailing,  and  wait  with 

perfect  trust,  no  matter  how  long, 
And  from  to-day  sad  and  cogent  I  maintain  the  bequeath'd  cause, 

as  for  all  lands, 

And  I  send  these  words  to  Paris  with  my  love, 
And  I  guess  some  chansonniers  there  will  understand  them, 
For  I  guess  there  is  latent  music  yet  in  France,  floods  of  it, 
O   I   hear  already  the  bustle  of  instruments,  they  will  soon  be 

drowning  all  that  would  interrupt  them, 

0  I  think  the  east  wind  brings  a  triumphal  and  free  march, 
It  reaches  hither,  it  swells  me  to  joyful  madness, 

1  will  run  transpose  it  in  words,  to  justify  it, 
I  will  yet  sing  a  song  for  you  ma  femme. 


MYSELF  AND   MINE. 

MYSELF  and  mine  gymnastic  ever, 

To  stand  the  cold  or  heat,  to  take  good  aim  with  a  gun,  to  sail  a 

boat,  to  manage  horses,  to  beget  superb  children, 
To  speak  readily  and  clearly,  to  feel  at  home  among   common 

people, 
And  to  hold  our  own  in  terrible  positions  on  land  and  sea. 

Not  for  an  embroiderer, 

(There  will  always  be  plenty  of  embroiderers,  I  welcome  them  also,) 

But  for  the  fibre  of  things  and  for  inherent  men  and  women. 

Not  to  chisel  ornaments, 

But  to  chisel  with  free  stroke  the  heads  and  limbs  of  plenteous 

supreme  Gods,  that  the  States  may  realize  them  walking 

and  talking. 

Let  me  have  my  own  way, 

Let  others  promulge  the  laws,  I  will  make  no  account  of  the  laws, 

Let  others  praise  eminent  men  and  hold  up  peace,  I  hold  up 

agitation  and  conflict, 
1  praise  no  eminent  man,  I  rebuke  to  his  face  the  one  that  was 

thought  most  worthy. 

(Who  are  you  ?  and  what  are  you  secretly  guilty  of  all  your  life  ? 
Will  you  turn  aside  all  your  life?  will  you  grub  and  chatter  all 

your  life  ? 
And  who  are   you,   blabbing  by  rote,   years,  pages,  languages, 

reminiscences, 


190  LEAVES  OP  GRASS. 

Unwitting  to-day  that  you  do  not  know  how  to  speak  properly  a 
single  word  ?) 

Let  others  finish  specimens,  I  never  finish  specimens, 
I  start  them  by  exhaustless  laws  as  Nature  does,  fresh  and  modern 
continually. 

I  give  nothing  as  duties, 

What  others  give  as  duties  I  give  as  living  impulses, 

(Shall  I  give  the  heart's  action  as  a  duty  ?) 

Let  others  dispose  of  questions,  I  dispose  of  nothing,  I  arouse 

unanswerable  questions, 

Who  are  they  I  see  and  touch,  and  what  about  them  ? 
What  about  these  likes  of  myself  that  draw  me  so  close  by  tender 

directions  and  indirections  ? 

I  call  to  the  world  to  distrust  the   accounts   of  my  friends,  but 

listen  to  my  enemies,  as  I  myself  do, 
I  charge  you  forever  reject  those  who  would  expound  me,  for  I 

cannot  expound  myself, 

I  charge  that  there  be  no  theory  or  school  founded  out  of  me. 
I  charge  you  to  leave  all  free,  as  I  have  left  all  free. 

After  me,  vista ! 

0  I  see  life  is  not  short,  but  immeasurably  long, 

1  henceforth  tread  the  world  chaste,  temperate,  an  early  riser,  a 

steady  grower, 
Every  hour  the  semen  of  centuries,  and  still  of  centuries. 

I  must  follow  up  these  continual  lessons  of  the  air,  water,  earth, 
I  perceive  I  have  no  time  to  lose. 


YEAR   OF   METEORS. 

(1859-60.) 

YEAR  of  meteors  !  brooding  year  ! 

I  would  bind  in  words  retrospective  some  of  your  deeds  and  signs, 

I  would  sing  your  contest  for  the  ipth  Presidentiad, 

I  would  sing  how  an  old  man,  tall,  with  white  hair,  mounted  the 

scaffold  in  Virginia, 

(I  was  at  hand,  silent  I  stood  with  teeth  shut  close,  I  watch'd, 
I  stood  very  near  you  old  man  when  cool  and  indifferent,  but 

trembling  with  age  and  your  unheard  wounds  you  mounted 

the  scaffold;) 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE.  191 

I  would  sing  in  my  copious  song  your  census  returns  of  the  States, 
The  tables  of  population  and  products,  I  would  sing  of  your  ships 

and  their  cargoes, 
The  proud  black  ships  of  Manhattan  arriving,  some  filPd  with 

immigrants,  some  from  the  isthmus  with  cargoes  of  gold, 
Songs  thereof  would  I  sing,  to  all  that  hitherward  comes  would  I 

welcome  give, 
And  you  would  I  sing,  fair  stripling  !  welcome  to  you  from  me, 

young  prince  of  England  ! 
(Remember  you  surging  Manhattan's  crowds  as  you  pass'd  with 

your  cortege  of  nobles  ? 

There  in  the  crowds  stood  I,  and  singled  you  out  with  attachment ;) 
Nor  forget  I  to  sing  of  the  wonder,  the  ship  as  she  swam  up  my 

bay, 
Well-shaped  and  stately  the  Great  Eastern  swam  up  my  bay,  she 

was  600  feet  long, 
Her  moving  swiftly  surrounded  by  myriads  of  small  craft  I  forget 

not  to  sing ; 
Nor  the  comet  that  came  unannounced  out  of  the  north  flaring  in 

heaven, 

Nor  the  strange  huge  meteor-procession  dazzling  and  clear  shoot 
ing  over  our  heads, 
(A  moment,  a  moment  long  it  sail'd  its  balls  of  unearthly  light 

over  our  heads, 

Then  departed,  dropt  in  the  night,  and  was  gone ;) 
Of  such,  and  fitful  as  they,  I  sing  —  with  gleams  from  them  would 

I  gleam  and  patch  these  chants, 
Your  chants,  O  year  all  mottled  with  evil  and  good  —  year  of 

forebodings  ! 
Year  of  comets  and  meteors  transient  and  strange  —  lo  !  even  here 

one  equally  transient  and  strange  ! 
As  I  flit  through  you  hastily,  soon  to  fall  and  be  gone,  what  is  this 

chant, 
What  am  I  myself  but  one  of  your  meteors  ? 

WITH   ANTECEDENTS. 

i 

WITH  antecedents, 

With  my  fathers  and   mothers   and  the  accumulations  of  past 

ages, 
With  all  which,  had  it  not  been,  I  would  not  now  be  here,  as  I 

am, 

With  Egypt,  India,  Phenicia,  Greece  and  Rome, 
With  the  Kelt,  the  Scandinavian,  the  Alb  and  the  Saxon, 


192  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

With  antique  maritime  ventures,  laws,  artisanship,  wars  and  jour 
neys, 

With  the  poet,  the  skald,  the  saga,  the  myth,  and  the  oracle, 

With  the  sale  of  slaves,  with  enthusiasts,  with  the  troubadour,  the 
crusader,  and  the  monk, 

With  those  old  continents  whence  we  have  come  to  this  new 
continent, 

With  the  fading  kingdoms  and  kings  over  there, 

With  the  fading  religions  and  priests, 

With  the  small  shores  we  look  back  to  from  our  own  large  and 
present  shores, 

With  countless  years  drawing  themselves  onward  and  arrived  at 
these  years, 

You  and  me  arrived  —  America  arrived  and  making  this  year, 

This  year  !  sending  itself  ahead  countless  years  to  come. 


0  but  it  is  not  the  years  —  it  is  I,  it  is  You, 
We  touch  all  laws  and  tally  all  antecedents, 

We  are  the  skald,  the  oracle,  the  monk  arid  the  knight,  we  easily 

include  them  and  more, 
We  stand  amid  time  beginningless  and  endless,  we  stand  amid  evil 

and  good, 

All  swings  around  us,  there  is  as  much  darkness  as  light, 
The  very  sun  swings  itself  and  its  system  of  planets  around  us, 
Its  sun,  and  its  again,  all  swing  around  us. 

As  for  me,  (torn,  stormy,  amid  these  vehement  days,) 

1  have  the  idea  of  all,  and  am  all  and  believe  in  all, 

I  believe  materialism  is  true  and  spiritualism  is  true,  I  reject  no 
part. 

(Have  I  forgotten  any  part?  any  thing  in  the  past? 
Come   to   me  whoever   and  whatever,  till  I   give  you   recogni 
tion.) 

I  respect  Assyria,  China,  Teutonia,  and  the  Hebrews, 

I  adopt  each  theory,  myth,  god,  and  demi-god, 

I  see  that  the  old  accounts,  bibles,  genealogies,  are  true,  without 

exception, 

I  assert  that  all  past  days  were  what  they  must  have  been, 
And  that  they  could  no-how  have  been  better  than  they  were, 
And  that  to-day  is  what  it  must  be,  and  that  America  is, 
And  that  to-day  and  America  could  no-how  be  better  than  they 

are. 


A  BROADWAY  PAGEANT.  193 

3 

In  the   name   of  these   States  and  in  your  and  my  name,  the 

Past, 
And  in  the  name  of  these  States  and  in  your  and  my  name,  the 

Present  time. 

I  know  that  the  past  was  great  and  the  future  will  be  great, 
And  I  know  that  both  curiously  conjoint  in  the  present  time, 
(For  the  sake  of  him  I  typify,  for  the  common  average  man's 

sake,  your  sake  if  you  are  he,) 
And  that  where  I  am  or  you  are  this  present  day,  there  is  the 

centre  of  all  days,  all  races, 
And  there  is  the  meaning  to  us  of  all  that  has  ever  come  of  races 

and  days,  or  ever  will  come. 


A  BROADWAY  PAGEANT. 


OVER  the  Western  sea  hither  from  Niphon  come, 
Courteous,  the  swart-cheek'd  two-sworded  envoys, 
Leaning  back  in  their  open  barouches,  bare-headed,  impassive, 
Ride  to-day  through  Manhattan. 

Libertad !  I  do  not  know  whether  others  behold  what  I  behold, 

In  the  procession  along  with  the  nobles  of  Niphon,  the  errand- 
bearers, 

Bringing  up  the  rear,  hovering  above,  around,  or  in  the  ranks 
marching, 

But  I  will  sing  you  a  song  of  what  I  behold  Libertad. 

When  million-footed  Manhattan  unpent  descends  to  her  pavements, 

When  the  thunder-cracking  guns  arouse  me  with  the  proud  roar 
I  love, 

When  the  round-mouth'd  guns  out  of  the  smoke  and  smell  I  love 
spit  their  salutes, 

When  the  fire-flashing  guns  have  fully  alerted  me,  and  heaven- 
clouds  canopy  my  city  with  a  delicate  tm'n  haze, 

When  gorgeous  the  countless  straight  stems,  the  forests  at  the 
wharves,  thicken  with  colors, 

When  every  ship  richly  drest  carries  her  flag  at  the  peak, 

When  pennants  trail  and  street-festoons  hang  from  the  windows, 


194  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

When  Broadway  is  entirely  given  up  to  foot-passengers  and  foot- 
standers,  when  the  mass  is  densest, 

When  the  facades  of  the  houses  are  alive  with  people,  when  eyes 
gaze  riveted  tens  of  thousands  at  a  time, 

When  the  guests  from  the  islands  advance,  when  the  pageant 
moves  forward  visible, 

When  the  summons  is  made,  when  the  answer  that  waited  thou 
sands  of  years  answers, 

I  too  arising,  answering,  descend  to  the  pavements,  merge  with 
the  crowd,  and  gaze  with  them. 

2 

Superb-faced  Manhattan  ! 

Comrade  Americanos  !  to  us,  then  at  last  the  Orient  comes. 

To  us,  my  city, 

Where  our  tall-topt  marble  and  iron  beauties  range  on  opposite 

sides,  to  walk  in  the  space  between, 
To-day  our  Antipodes  comes. 

The  Originatress  comes, 

The  nest  of  languages,  the  bequeather  of  poems,  the  race  of  eld, 

Florid  with  blood,  pensive,  rapt  with  musings,  hot  with  passion, 

Sultry  with  perfume,  with  ample  and  flowing  garments, 

With  sunburnt  visage,  with  intense  soul  and  glittering  eyes, 

The  race  of  Brahma  comes. 

See  my  cantabile  !  these  and  more  are  flashing  to  us  from  the 

procession, 
As  it  moves  changing,  a  kaleidoscope  divine  it  moves  changing 

before  us. 

For  not  the  envoys  nor  the  tann'd  Japanee  from  his  island  only, 
Lithe  and  silent  the  Hindoo  appears,  the  Asiatic  continent  itself 

appears,  the  past,  the  dead, 

The  murky  night-morning  of  wonder  and  fable  inscrutable, 
The  envelop'd  mysteries,  the  old  and  unknown  hive-bees, 
The  north,  the  sweltering  south,  eastern  Assyria,  the  Hebrews,  the 

ancient  of  ancients, 
Vast  desolated  cities,  the  gliding  present,  all  of  these  and  more  are 

in  the  pageant-procession. 

Geography,  the  world,  is  in  it, 

The  Great  Sea,  the  brood  of  islands,  Polynesia,  the  coast  beyond, 
The  coast  you  henceforth  are  facing  —  you  Libertad  !  from  your 
Western  golden  shores, 


A  BROADWAY  PAGEANT.  IQ5 

The  countries  there  with  their  populations,  the  millions  en-masse 

are  curiously  here, 
The  swarming  market-places,  the  temples  with  idols  ranged  along 

the  sides  or  at  the  end,  bonze,  brahmin,  and  llama, 
Mandarin,  farmer,  merchant,  mechanic,  and  fisherman, 
The  singing-girl  and  the  dancing-girl,  the   ecstatic   persons,  the 

secluded  emperors, 
Confucius  himself,  the  great  poets  and  heroes,  the  warriors,  the 

castes,  all, 

Trooping  up,  crowding  from  all  directions,  from  the  Altay  moun 
tains, 
From  Thibet,  from   the  four  winding   and   far-flowing  rivers  of 

China, 
From  the  southern  peninsulas  and  the  demi -continental  islands, 

from  Malaysia, 
These  and  whatever  belongs  to  them  palpable  show  forth  to  me, 

and  are  seiz'd  by  me, 

And  I  am  seiz'd  by  them,  and  friendlily  held  by  them, 
Till  as  here  them  all  I  chant,  Libertad  !  for  themselves  and  for 

you. 

For  I  too  raising  my  voice  join  the  ranks  of  this  pageant, 

I  am  the  chanter,  I  chant  aloud  over  the  pageant, 

I  chant  the  world  on  my  Western  sea, 

I  chant  copious  the  islands  beyond,  thick  as  stars  in  the  sky, 

I  chant  the  new  empire  grander  than  any  before,  as  in  a  vision  it 

comes  to  me, 

I  chant  America  the  mistress,  I  chant  a  greater  supremacy, 
I  chant  projected  a  thousand  blooming  cities  yet  in  time  on  those 

groups  of  sea-islands, 

My  sail-ships  and  steam-ships  threading  the  archipelagoes, 
My  stars  and  stripes  fluttering  in  the  wind, 
Commerce  opening,  the  sleep  of  ages  having  done  its  work,  races 

reborn,  refresh'd, 
Lives,  works  resumed  —  the  object  I  know  not  —  but  the  old,  the 

Asiatic  renew'd  as  it  must  be, 
Commencing  from  this  day  surrounded  by  the  world. 

3 

And  you  Libertad  of  the  world  ! 

You  shall  sit  in  the  middle  well-pois'd  thousands  and  thousands  of 

years, 

As  to-day  from  one  side  the  nobles  of  Asia  come  to  you, 
As  to-morrow  from  the  other  side  the  queen  of  England  sends  her 

eldest  son  to  you. 


1 96  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

The  sign  is  reversing,  the  orb  is  enclosed, 
The  ring  is  circled,  the  journey  is  done, 

The  box-lid  is  but  perceptibly  open'd,  nevertheless  the  perfume 
pours  copiously  out  of  the  whole  box. 

Young  Libertad  !  with  the  venerable  Asia,  the  all-mother, 
Be  considerate  with  her  now  and  ever  hot  Libertad,  for  you  are  all 
Bend  your  proud  neck  to  the  long-off  mother  now  sending  mes 
sages  over  the  archipelagoes  to  you, 
Bend  your  proud  neck  low  for  once,  young  Libertad. 

Were  the  children  straying  westward  so  long  ?  so  wide  the  tramping  ? 
Were  the  precedent  dim  ages  debouching  westward  from  Paradise 

so  long  ? 
Were  the   centuries  steadily  footing  it  that  way,  all  the  while 

unknown,  for  you,  for  reasons  ? 

They  are  justified,  they  are  accomplish'd,  they  shall  now  be  turn'd 
the  other  way  also,  to  travel  toward  you  thence, 

They  shall  now  also  march  obediently  eastward  for  your  sake 
Libertad. 


SEA-DRIFT. 


OUT   OF   THE   CRADLE   ENDLESSLY   ROCKING. 

OUT  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking, 
Out  of  the  mocking-bird's  throat,  the  musical  shuttle, 

Out  of  the  Ninth-month  midnight, 

Over  the  sterile  sands  and  the   fields  beyond,  where   the   child 
leaving  his  bed  wander'd  alone,  bareheaded,  barefoot, 

Down  from  the  shower'd  halo, 

Up  from  the  mystic  play  of  shadows  twining  and  twisting  as   if 
they  were  alive, 

Out  from  the  patches  of  briers  and  blackberries, 

From  the  memories  of  the  bird  that  chanted  to  me, 

From  your  memories  sad  brother,  from  the  fitful  risings  and  fall 
ings  I  heard, 

From  under  that  yellow  half-moon  late-risen  and  swollen  as  if  with 
tears, 


SEA-DRIFT.  197 

From  those  beginning  notes  of  yearning  and  love  there  in  the  mist, 

From  the  thousand  responses  of  my  heart  never  to  cease, 

From  the  myriad  thence-arous'd  words, 

From  the  word  stronger  and  more  delicious  than  any, 

From  such  as  now  they  start  the  scene  revisiting, 

As  a  flock,  twittering,  rising,  or  overhead  passing, 

Borne  hither,  ere  all  eludes  me,  hurriedly, 

A  man,  yet  by  these  tears  a  little  boy  again, 

Throwing  myself  on  the  sand,  confronting  the  waves, 

I,  chanter  of  pains  and  joys,  uniter  of  here  and  hereafter, 

Taking  all  hints  to  use  them,  but  swiftly  leaping  beyond  them, 

A  reminiscence  sing. 

Once  Paumanok, 

When   the  lilac -scent  was  in  the  air  and  Fifth-month  grass  was 

growing, 

Up  this  seashore  in  some  briers, 
Two  feather'd  guests  from  Alabama,  two  together, 
And  their  nest,  and  four  light-green  eggs  spotted  with  brown, 
And  every  day  the  he-bird  to  and  fro  near  at  hand, 
And  every  day  the   she-bird   crouch'd  on  her  nest,  silent,  with 

bright  eyes, 
And  every  day  I,  a  curious  boy,  never  too  close,  never  disturbing 

them, 
Cautiously  peering,  absorbing,  translating. 

Shine!  shine!  shine! 

Pour  down  your  warmth,  great  sun  / 

While  we  bask,  we  two  together. 

Two  together  ! 

Winds  blow  south,  or  winds  blow  north, 
Day  come  white,  or  night  come  black, 
Home,  or  rivers  and  mountains  from  home, 
Singing  all  time,  minding  no  time, 
While  we  two  keep  together. 

Till  of  a  sudden, 

May-be  kill'd,  unknown  to  her  mate, 

One  forenoon  the  she-bird  crouch'd  not  on  the  nest, 

Nor  return'd  that  afternoon,  nor  the  next, 

Nor  ever  appear'd  again. 

And  thenceforward  all  summer  in  the  sound  of  the  sea, 
And  at  night  under  the  full  of  the  moon  in  calmer  weather, 


198  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Over  the  hoarse  surging  of  the  sea, 

Or  flitting  from  brier  to  brier  by  day, 

I  saw,  I  heard  at  intervals  the  remaining  one,  the  he-bird, 

The  solitary  guest  from  Alabama. 

Blow  !  blow  !  blow  / 

Blow  up  sea-winds  along  Paumanok's  shore  ; 

1  wait  and  I  wait  till  you  blow  my  mate  to  me. 

Yes,  when  the  stars  glisten'd, 

All  night  long  on  the  prong  of  a  moss-scallop'd  stake, 

Down  almost  amid  the  slapping  waves, 

Sat  the  lone  singer  wonderful  causing  tears. 

He  call'd  on  his  mate, 

He  pour'd  forth  the  meanings  which  I  of  all  men  know. 

Yes  my  brother  I  know, 

The  rest  might  not,  but  I  have  treasur'd  every  note, 

For  more  than  once  dimly  down  to  the  beach  gliding, 

Silent,  avoiding  the  moonbeams,  blending  myself  with  the  shadows, 

Recalling  now  the  obscure  shapes,  the  echoes,  the  sounds   and 

sights  after  their  sorts, 

The  white  arms  out  in  the  breakers  tirelessly  tossing, 
I,  with  bare  feet,  a  child,  the  wind  wafting  my  hair, 
Listen'd  long  and  long. 

Listen'd  to  keep,  to  sing,  now  translating  the  notes, 
Following  you  my  brother. 

Soothe!  soothe!  soothe! 

Close  on  its  wave  soothes  the  wave  behind, 

And  again  another  behind  embracing  and  lapping,  every  one  close, 

But  my  love  soothes  not  me,  not  me. 

Low  hangs  tJie  moon,  it  rose  late, 

It  is  lagging  —  O  I  think  it  is  heavy  with  love,  with  love. 

O  madly  the  sea  pushes  upon  the  land, 
With  love,  with  love. 

O  night  /  do  I  not  see  my  love  fluttering  out  among  the  breakers  9 
What  is  that  little  black  thing  I  see  there  in  the  white  ? 

Loud!  loud!  loud! 

Loud  I  call  to  you,  my  love  / 


SEA-DRIFT.  199 


High  and  clear  I  shoot  my  voice  over  the  waves  y 
Surely  you  must  know  who  is  here,  is  here, 
must  know  who  I  am,  my  love. 


Low-hanging  moon  ! 

What  is  that  dusky  spot  in  your  brown  yellow  ? 

O  it  is  the  shape,  the  shape  of  my  mate  ! 

O  moon  do  not  keep  her  from  me  any  longer. 

Land!  land!   O  land! 

Whichever  way  I  turn,  O  I  think  you  could  give  me  my  mate 

back  again  if  you  only  would, 
For  I  am  almost  sure  1  see  her  dimly  whichever  way  I  look. 

O  rising  stars  / 

Perhaps  the  one  I  want  so  much  will  rise,  will  rise  with  some 
of  you. 

O  throat!  O  trembling  throat  t 

Sound  clearer  through  the  atmosphere  ! 

Pierce  the  woods,  the  earth, 

Somewhere  listening  to  catch  you  must  be  the  one  I  want. 

Shake  out  carols  ! 

Solitary  here,  the  night's  carols  ! 

Carols  of  lonesome  love  !  death's  carols  / 

Carols  under  that  lagging,  yellow,  waning  moon  / 

O  under  that  moon  where  she  droops  almost  down  into  the  sea  / 

O  reckless  despairing  carols. 

But  soft  !  sink  low  ! 
Soft  !  let  me  just  murmur, 

And  do  you  wait  a  moment  you  husky-noised  sea, 
For  somewhere  I  believe  I  heard  my  mate  responding  to  me, 
So  faint,  1  must  be  still,  be  still  to  listen, 

But  not  altogether  still,  for  then  she  might  not  come  immediately 
to  me. 

Hither  my  love  ! 

Here  1  am  !  here  / 

With  this  just-  sustained  note  I  announce  myself  to  you, 

This  gentle  call  is  for  you  my  love,  for  you. 

Do  not  oe  decoy'd  elsewhere, 

That  is  the  whistle  of  the  windt  it  is  not  my  voice, 


2OO  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

TJiat  is  the  fluttering,  the  fluttering  of  the  spray. 
Those  are  the  shadows  of  leaves. 

O  darkness  /   O  in  vain  / 

O  I  am  very  sick  and  sorrowful. 

O  brown  halo  in  the  sky  near  the  moon,  drooping  upon  the  sea  / 

O  troubled  reflection  in  the  sea  ! 

O  throat.'  O  throbbing  heart! 

And  I  singing  uselessly,  uselessly  all  the  night. 

O  past!   O  happy  life  !   O  songs  of  joy  / 
In  the  air,  in  the  woods,  over  fields, 
Loved!  loved!  loved!  loved!  loved! 
But  my  mate  no  more,  no  more  with  me  / 
We  two  together  no  more. 

The  aria  sinking, 

All  else  continuing,  the  stars  shining, 

The  winds  blowing,  the  notes  of  the  bird  continuous  echoing, 

With  angry  moans  the  fierce  old  mother  incessantly  moaning, 

On  the  sands  of  Paumanok's  shore  gray  and  rustling, 

The  yellow  half-moon  enlarged,  sagging  down,  drooping,  the  face 

of  the  sea  almost  touching, 
The  boy  ecstatic,  with  his  bare  feet  the  waves,  with  his  hair  the 

atmosphere  dallying, 
The  love  in  the  heart  long  pent,  now  loose,  now  at  last  tumultu- 

ously  bursting, 

The  aria's  meaning,  the  ears,  the  soul,  swiftly  depositing, 
The  strange  tears  down  the  cheeks  coursing, 
The  colloquy  there,  the  trio,  each  uttering, 
The  undertone,  the  savage  old  mother  incessantly  crying, 
To  the  boy's  soul's  questions  sullenly  timing,  some  drown'd  secret 

hissing, 
To  the  outsetting  bard. 

Demon  or  bird  !  (said  the  boy's  soul,) 

Is  it  indeed  toward  your  mate  you  sing  ?  or  is  it  really  to  me  ? 

For  I,  that  was  a   child,  my  tongue's  use  sleeping,  now  I  have 

heard  you, 

Now  in  a  moment  I  know  what  I  am  for,  I  awake, 
And  already  a  thousand  singers,  a  thousand  songs,  clearer,  louder 

and  more  sorrowful  than  yours, 
A  thousand  warbling  echoes  have  started  to  life  within  me,  never 

to  die. 


SEA-DRIFT  201 

O  you  singer  solitary,  singing  by  yourself,  projecting  me, 

O   solitary  me  listening,  never  more  shall  I  cease  perpetuating 

you, 

Never  more  shall  I  escape,  never  more  the  reverberations, 
Never  more  the  cries  of  unsatisfied  love  be  absent  from  me, 
Never  again  leave  me  to  be  the  peaceful  child  I  was  before  what 

there  in  the  night, 

By  the  sea  under  the  yellow  and  sagging  moon, 
The  messenger  there  arous'd,  the  fire,  the  sweet  hell  within, 
The  unknown  want,  the  destiny  of  me. 

O  give  me  the  clew  !  (it  lurks  in  the  night  here  somewhere,) 
O  if  I  am  to  have  so  much,  let  me  have  more  ! 

A  word  then,  (for  I  will  conquer  it,) 
The  word  final,  superior  to  all, 
Subtle,  sent  up  —  what  is  it  ?  —  I  listen ; 

Are  you  whispering  it,   and  have  been  all  the  time,  you  sea- 
waves  ? 
Is  that  it  from  your  liquid  rims  and  wet  sands  ? 

Whereto  answering,  the  sea, 

Delaying  not,  hurrying  not, 

Whisper'd  me  through  the  night,  and  very  plainly  before  day 
break, 

Lisp'd  to  me  the  low  and  delicious  word  death, 

And  again  death,  death,  death,  death, 

Hissing  melodious,  neither  like  the  bird  nor  like  my  arous'd  child's 
heart, 

But  edging  near  as  privately  for  me  rustling  at  my  feet, 

Creeping  thence  steadily  up  to  my  ears  and  laving  me  softly  all 
over, 

Death,  death,  death,  death,  death. 

Which  I  do  not  forget, 

But  fuse  the  song  of  my  dusky  demon  and  brother, 

That  he  sang  to  me  in  the  moonlight  on  Paumanok's  gray  beach, 

With  the  thousand  responsive  songs  at  random, 

My  own  songs  awaked  from  that  hour, 

And  with  them  the  key,  the  word  up  from  the  waves, 

The  word  of  the  sweetest  song  and  all  songs, 

That  strong  and  delicious  word  which,  creeping  to  my  feet, 

(Or  like  some  old  crone  rocking   the  cradle,  swathed  in  sweet 

garments,  bending  aside,) 
The  sea  whisper'd  me. 


2O2  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

AS   I   EBB'D   WITH   THE   OCEAN    OF   LIFE. 


As  I  ebb'd  with  the  ocean  of  life, 
As  I  wended  the  shores  I  know, 

As  I  walk'd  where  the  ripples  continually  wash  you  Paumanok, 
Where  they  rustle  up  hoarse  and  sibilant, 
Where  the  fierce  old  mother  endlessly  cries  for  her  castaways, 
I  musing  late  in  the  autumn  day,  gazing  off  southward, 
Held  by  this  electric  self  out  of  the  pride  of  which  I  utter  poems, 
Was  seiz'd  by  the  spirit  that  trails  in  the  lines  underfoot, 
The  rim,  the  sediment  that  stands  for  all  the  water  and  all  the 
land  of  the  globe. 

Fascinated,  my  eyes  reverting  from   the  south,  dropt,  to  follow 

those  slender  windrows, 

Chaff,  straw,  splinters  of  wood,  weeds,  and  the  sea-gluten, 
Scum,  scales  from  shining  rocks,  leaves  of  salt-lettuce,  left  by  the 

tide, 

Miles  walking,  the  sound  Of  breaking  waves  the  other  side  of  me, 
Paumanok  there  and  then  as  I  thought  the  old  thought  of  likenesses, 
These  you  presented  to  me  you  fish-shaped  island, 
As  I  wended  the  shores  I  know, 
As  I  walk'd  with  that  electric  self  seeking  types. 


As  I  wend  to  the  shores  I  know  not, 

As  I  list  to  the  dirge,  the  voices  of  men  and  women  wreck'd, 

As  I  inhale  the  impalpable  breezes  that  set  in  upon  me, 

As  the  ocean  so  mysterious  rolls  toward  me  closer  and  closer, 

I  too  but  signify  at  the  utmost  a  little  wash'd-up  drift, 

A  few  sands  and  dead  leaves  to  gather, 

Gather,  and  merge  myself  as  part  of  the  sands  and  drift. 

O  baffled,  balk'd,  bent  to  the  very  earth, 

Oppress'd  with  myself  that  I  have  dared  to  open  my  mouth, 

Aware  now  that  amid  all  that  blab  whose  echoes  recoil  upon  me  I 

have  not  once  had  the  least  idea  who  or  what  I  am, 
But  that  before  all  my  arrogant  poems  the  real  Me  stands  yet 

untouch'd,  untold,  altogether  unreach'd, 
Withdrawn  far,  mocking  me  with  mock-congratulatory  signs  and 

bows, 

\Vith  peals  of  distant  ironical  laughter  at  every  word  I  have  written, 
Pointing  in  silence  to  these  songs,  and  then  to  the  sand  beneath. 


SEA-DRfFT.  203 

I  perceive  I  have  not  really  understood  any  thing,  not  a  single 

object,  and  that  no  man  ever  can, 
Nature  here  in  sight  of  the  sea  taking  advantage  of  me  to  dart 

upon  me  and  sting  me, 
Because  I  have  dared  to  open  my  mouth  to  sing  at  all. 


You  oceans  both,  I  close  with  you, 

We  murmur  alike  reproachfully  rolling  sands  and  drift,  knowing 

not  why, 
These  little  shreds  indeed  standing  for  you  and  me  and  all. 

You  friable  shore  with  trails  of  debris, 

You  fish-shaped  island,  I  take  what  is  underfoot, 

What  is  yours  is  mine  my  father. 

I  too  Paumanok, 

I  too  have  bubbled  up,  floated  the  measureless  float,  and  been 

wash'd  on  your  shores, 
I  too  am  but  a  trail  of  drift  and  debris, 
I  too  leave  little  wrecks  upon  you,  you  fish-shaped  island. 

I  throw  myself  upon  your  breast  my  father, 
I  cling  to  you  so  that  you  cannot  unloose  me, 
I  hold  you  so  firm  till  you  answer  me  something. 

Kiss  me  my  father, 

Touch  me  with  your  lips  as  I  touch  those  I  love, 
Breathe  to  me  while  I  hold  you  close  the  secret  of  the  murmuring 
I  envy. 

4 

Ebb,  ocean  of  life,  (the  flow  will  return,) 
Cease  not  your  moaning  you  fierce  old  mother, 
Endlessly  cry  for  your  castaways,  but  fear  not,  deny  not  me, 
Rustle  not  up  so  hoarse  and  angry  against  my  feet  as  I  touch  you 
or  gather  from  you. 

I  mean  tenderly  by  you  and  all, 

I  gather  for  myself  and  for  this  phantom  looking  dowtt  where  we 
lead,  and  following  me  and  mine, 

Me  and  mine,  loose  windrows,  little  corpses, 
Froth,  snowy  white,  and  bubbles, 
(See,  from  my  dead  lips  the  ooze  exudiiig  at  last, 
14 


2O4  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

See,  the  prismatic  colors  glistening  and  rolling,) 

Tufts  of  straw,  sands,  fragments, 

Buoy'd  hither  from  many  moods,  one  contradicting  another, 

From  the  storm,  the  long  calm,  the  darkness,  the  swell, 

Musing,  pondering,  a  breath,  a  briny  tear,  a  dab  of  liquid  or  soil, 

Up  just  as  much  out  of  fathomless  workings  fermented  and  thrown, 

A  limp  blossom  or  two,  torn,  just  as  much  over  waves  floating, 

drifted  at  random, 

Just  as  much  for  us  that  sobbing  dirge  of  Nature, 
Just  as  much  whence  we  come  that  blare  of  the  cloud-trumpets, 
We,  capricious,  brought  hither  we  know  not  whence,  spread  out 

before  you, 

You  up  there  walking  or  sitting, 
Whoever  you  are,  we  too  lie  in  drifts  at  your  feet. 


TEARS. 

TEARS  !  tears  !  tears  ! 

In  the  night,  in  solitude,  tears, 

On  the  white  shore  dripping,  dripping,  suck'd  in  by  the  sand, 

Tears,  not  a  star  shining,  all  dark  and  desolate, 

Moist  tears  from  the  eyes  of  a  muffled  head ; 

O  who  is  that  ghost?  that  form  in  the  dark,  with  tears? 

What  shapeless  lump  is  that,  bent,  crouch'd  there  on  the  sand? 

Streaming  tears,  sobbing  tears,  throes,  choked  with  wild  cries ; 

O  storm,  embodied,  rising,  careering  with  swift  steps  along  the 
beach  ! 

O  wild  and  dismal  night  storm,  with  wind  —  O  belching  and  des 
perate  ! 

O  shade  so  sedate  and  decorous  by  day,  with  calm  countenance 
and  regulated  pace, 

But  away  at  night  as  you  fly,  none  looking  —  O  then  the  unloosen'd 
ocean, 

Of  tears  !  tears  !  tears  ! 


TO   THE   MAN-OF-WAR-BIRD. 

THOU  who  hast  slept  all  night  upon  the  storm, 

Waking  renew'd  on  thy  prodigious  pinions, 

(Burst  the  wild  storm?  above  it  thou  ascended'st, 

And  rested  on  the  sky,  thy  slave  that  cradled  thee,) 

Now  a  blue  point,  far,  far  in  heaven  floating, 

As  to  the  light  emerging  here  on  deck  I  watch  thee, 

(Myself  a  speck,  a  point  on  the  world's  floating  vast.) 


SEA-DRIFT.  205 

Far,  far  at  sea, 

After  the  night's  fierce  drifts  have  strewn  the  shore  with  wrecks, 

With  re-appearing  day  as  now  so  happy  and  serene, 

The  rosy  and  elastic  dawn,  the  flashing  sun, 

The  limpid  spread  of  air  cerulean, 

Thou  also  re-appearest. 

Thou  born  to  match  the  gale,  (thou  art  all  wings,) 

To  cope  with  heaven  and  earth  and  sea  and  hurricane, 

Thou  ship  of  air  that  never  furl'st  thy  sails, 

Days,  even  weeks  untired  and  onward,  through  spaces,  realms 

gyrating, 

At  dusk  that  look'st  on  Senegal,  at  morn  America, 
That  sport'st  amid  the  lightning-flash  and  thunder-cloud, 
In  them,  in  thy  experiences,  had'st  thou  my  soul, 
What  joys  !  what  joys  were  thine  ! 


ABOARD  AT  A  SHIP'S   HELM. 

ABOARD  at  a  ship's  helm, 

A  young  steersman  steering  with  care. 

Through  fog  on  a  sea-coast  dolefully  ringing, 

An  ocean-bell  —  O  a  warning  bell,  rock'd  by  the  waves. 

O  you  give  good  notice  indeed,  you  bell  by  the  sea-reefs  ringing, 
Ringing,  ringing,  to  warn  the  ship  from  its  wreck-place. 

For  as  on  the  alert  O  steersman,  you  mind  the  loud  admonition, 
The  bows  turn,  the  freighted  ship  tacking  speeds  away  under  her 

gray  sails, 
The  beautiful  and  noble  ship  with  all  her  precious  wealth  speeds 

away  gayly  and  safe. 

But  O  the  ship,  the  immortal  ship  !  O  ship  aboard  the  ship  ! 
Ship  of  the  body,  ship  of  the  soul,  voyaging,  voyaging,  voyaging. 


ON   THE   BEACH   AT   NIGHT. 

ON  the  beach  at  night, 
Stands  a  child  with  her  father, 
Watching  the  east,  the  autumn  sky. 

Up  through  the  darkness, 


2O6  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


While  ravening  clouds,  the  burial  clouds,  in  black  masses  spreading, 

Lower  sullen  and  fast  athwart  and  down  the  sky, 

Amid  a  transparent  clear  belt  of  ether  yet  left  in  the  east, 

Ascends  large  and  calm  the  lord-star  Jupiter, 

And  nigh  at  hand,  only  a  very  little  above, 

Swim  the  delicate  sisters  the  Pleiades. 

From  the  beach  the  child  holding  the  hand  of  her  father, 
Those  burial-clouds  that  lower  victorious  soon  to  devour  all, 
Watching,  silently  weeps. 

Weep  not,  child, 

Weep  not,  my  darling, 

With  these  kisses  let  me  remove  your  tears, 

The  ravening  clouds  shall  not  long  be  victorious, 

They  shall  not  long  possess  the  sky,  they  devour  the  stars  only  in 

apparition, 
Jupiter  shall  emerge,  be  patient,  watch  again  another  night,  the 

Pleiades  shall  emerge, 
They  are  immortal,  all  those  stars  both  silvery  and  golden  shall 

shine  out  again, 
The  great  stars  and  the  little  ones  shall  shine  out  again,  they 

endure, 
The  vast  immortal  suns  and  the  long-enduring  pensive  moons 

shall  again  shine. 

Then  dearest  child  mournest  thou  only  for  Jupiter  ? 
Considerest  thou  alone  the  burial  of  the  stars  ? 

Something  there  is, 

(With  my  lips  soothing  thee,  adding  I  whisper, 

I  give  thee  the  first  suggestion,  the  problem  and  indirection,) 

Something  there  is  more  immortal  even  than  the  stars, 

(Many  the  burials,  many  the  days  and  nights,  passing  away,) 

Something  that  shall  endure  longer  even  than  lustrous  Jupiter, 

Longer  than  sun  or  any  revolving  satellite, 

Or  the  radiant  sisters  the  Pleiades. 


THE   WORLD   BELOW  THE   BRINE. 

THE  world  below  the  brine, 

Forests  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  the  branches  and  leaves, 
Sea-lettuce,  vast  lichens,  strange  flowers  and  seeds,  the  thick  tangle, 
openings,  and  pink  turf, 


SEA-DRIFT.  207 

Different  colors,  pale  gray  and  green,  purple,  white,  and  gold,  the 

play  of  light  through  the  water, 
Dumb  swimmers  there  among  the  rocks,  coral,  gluten,  grass,  rushes 

and  the  aliment  of  the  swimmers,  A 

Sluggish  existences  grazing  there  suspended,  or  slowly  crawling  ^2* 

close  to  the  bottom,  ?  > 

The  sperm-whale  at  the  surface  blowing  air  and  spray,  or  disporting 

with  his  flukes, 
The  leaden-eyed  shark,  the  walrus,  the  turtle,  the  hairy  sea-leopard, 

and  the  sting-ray, 
Passions  there,  wars,  pursuits,  tribes,  sight  in  those  ocean-depths, 

breathing  that  thick-breathing  air,  as  so  many  do, 
The  change  thence  to  the  sight  here,  and  to  the  subtle  air  breathed 

by  beings  like  us  who  walk  this  sphere, 
The  change  onward  from  ours  to  that  of  beings  who  walk  other 

spheres. 


ON  THE  BEACH  AT  NIGHT  ALONE. 

ON  the  beach  at  night  alone, 

As  the  old  mother  sways  her  to  and  fro  singing  her  husky  song, 
As  I  watch  the  bright  stars  shining,  I  think  a  thought  of  the  clef 
of  the  universes  and  of  the  future. 

A  vast  similitude  interlocks  all, 

All  spheres,  grown,  ungrown,  small,  large,  suns,  moons,  planets, 

All  distances  of  place  however  wide, 

All  distances  of  time,  all  inanimate  forms, 

All  souls,  all  living  bodies  though  they  be  ever  so  different,  or  in 

different  worlds, 
All  gaseous,  watery,  vegetable,  mineral  processes,  the  fishes,  the 

brutes, 

All  nations,  colors,  barbarisms,  civilizations,  languages, 
All  identities  that  have  existed  or  may  exist  on  this  globe,  or  any 

globe, 

All  lives  and  deaths,  all  of  the  past,  present,  future, 
This  vast  similitude  spans  them,  and  always  has  spann'd, 
And  shall  forever  span  them  and  compactly  hold  and  enclose  them, 

SONG  FOR  ALL  SEAS,  ALL  SHIPS. 

i 

TO-DAY  a  rude  brief  recitative, 
Of  ships  sailing  the  seas,  each  with  its  special  flag  or  ship-signal, 


2o8  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Of  unnamed  heroes  in  the  ships  —  of  waves  spreading  and  spread 
ing  far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 

Of  dashing  spray,  and  the  winds  piping  and  blowing, 
And  out  of  these  a  chant  for  the  sailors  of  all  nations, 
Fitful,  like  a  surge. 

Of  sea-captains  young  or  old,  and  the  mates,  and  of  all  intrepid 

sailors, 
Of  the  few,  very  choice,  taciturn,  whom  fate  can  never  surprise 

nor  death  dismay, 

Pick'd  sparingly  without  noise  by  thee  old  ocean,  chosen  by  thee, 
Thou  sea  that  pickest  and  cullest  the  race  in  time,  and  unitest 

nations, 

Suckled  by  thee,  old  husky  nurse,  embodying  thee, 
Indomitable,  untamed  as  thee. 

(Ever  the  heroes  on  water  or  on  land,  by  ones  or  twos  appearing, 
Ever  the  stock  preserv'd  and  never  lost,  though  rare,  enough  for 
seed  preserv'd.) 


Flaunt  out  O  sea  your  separate  flags  of  nations  ! 

Flaunt  out  visible  as  ever  the  various  ship-signals  ! 

But  do  you  reserve  especially  for  yourself  and  for  the  soul  of  man 

one  flag  above  all  the  rest, 
A  spiritual  woven  signal  for  all  nations,  emblem  of  man  elate  above 

death, 

Token  of  all  brave  captains  and  all  intrepid  sailors  and  mates, 
And  all  that  went  down  doing  their  duty, 

Reminiscent  of  them,  twined  from  all  intrepid  captains  young  or  old, 
A  pennant  universal,  subtly  waving  all  time,  o'er  all  brave  sailors, 
All  seas,  all  ships. 


PATROLING  BARNEGAT. 

WILD,  wild  the  storm,  and  the  sea  high  running, 
Steady  the  roar  of  the  gale,  with  incessant  undertone  muttering, 
Shouts  of  demoniac  laughter  fitfully  piercing  and  pealing, 
Waves,  air,  midnight,  their  savagest  trinity  lashing, 
Out  in  the  shadows  there  milk-white  combs  careering, 
On  beachy  slush  and  sand  spirts  of  snow  fierce  slanting. 
Where  through  the  murk  the  easterly  death-wind  breasting, 
Through  cutting  swirl  and  spray  watchful  and  firm  advancing, 
(That  in  the  distance  !  is  that  a  wreck  ?  is  the  red  signal  flaring  ?) 


BY  THE  ROADSIDE.  209 

Slush  and  sand  of  the  beach  tireless  till  daylight  wending, 
Steadily,  slowly,  through  hoarse  roar  never  remitting, 
Along  the  midnight  edge  by  those  milk-white  combs  careering, 
A  group  of  dim,  weird  forms,  struggling,  the  night  confronting, 
That  savage  trinity  warily  watching. 


AFTER  THE   SEA-SHIP. 

AFTER  the  sea-ship,  after  the  whistling  winds, 

After  the  white-gray  sails  taut  to  their  spars  and  ropes, 

Below,  a  myriad  myriad  waves  hastening,  lifting  up  their  necks, 

Tending  in  ceaseless  flow  toward  the  track  of  the  ship, 

Waves  of  the  ocean  bubbling  and  gurgling,  blithely  prying, 

Waves,  undulating  waves,  liquid,  uneven,  emulous  waves, 

Toward  that  whirling  current,  laughing  and  buoyant,  with  curves, 

Where  the  great  vessel  sailing  and  tacking  displaced  the  surface, 

Larger  and  smaller  waves  in  the  spread  of  the  ocean  yearnfully 

flowing, 
The  wake  of  the  sea-ship  after  she  passes,  flashing  and  frolicsome 

under  the  sun, 

A  motley  procession  with  many  a  fleck  of  foam  and  many  fragments, 
Following  the  stately  and  rapid  ship,  in  the  wake  following. 


BY   THE    ROADSIDE. 


A  BOSTON   BALLAD. 

(1854.) 

TO  get  betimes  in  Boston  town  I  rose  this  morning  early, 
Here's  a  good  place  at  the  corner,  I  must  stand  and  see 
the  show. 

Clear  the  way  there  Jonathan  ! 

Way  for  the  President's  marshal  —  way  for  the  government  cannon  ! 
Way  for  the   Federal  foot   and  dragoons,   (and  the   apparitions 
copiously  tumbling.) 

I  love  to  look  on  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  I  hope  the  fifes  will  play 
Yankee  Doodle. 


2IO  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


How  bright  shine  the  cutlasses  of  the  foremost  troops  ! 

Every  man  holds  his  revolver,  marching  stiff  through  Boston  town, 

A  fog  follows,  antiques  of  the  same  come  limping, 
Some   appear  wooden-legged,  and   some  appear  bandaged   and 
bloodless. 

Why  this  is  indeed  a  show  —  it  has  called  the  dead  out  of  the 

earth! 

The  old  graveyards  of  the  hills  have  hurried  to  see  ! 
Phantoms  !  phantoms  countless  by  flank  and  rear  ! 
Cock'd  hats  of  mothy  mould  —  crutches  made  of  mist ! 
Arms  in  slings  —  old  men  leaning  on  young  men's  shoulders. 

What  troubles  you  Yankee  phantoms?  what  is  all  this  chattering 

of  bare  gums? 
Does  the  ague  convulse  your  limbs  ?  do  you  mistake  your  crutches 

for  firelocks  and  level  them  ? 

If  you  blind  your  eyes  with  tears  you  will  not  see  the  President's 

marshal, 
If  you  groan  such  groans  you  might  balk  the  government  cannon. 

For  shame  old  maniacs  —  bring  down  those  toss'd  arms,  and  let 

your  white  hair  be, 
Here  gape  your  great  grandsons,  their  wives  gaze  at  them  from 

the  windows, 
See  how  well  dress'd,  see  how  orderly  they  conduct  themselves. 

Worse  and  worse  —  can't  you  stand  it?  are  you  retreating? 
Is  this  hour  with  the  living  too  dead  for  you  ? 

Retreat  then  —  pell-mell ! 

To  your  graves  —  back  —  back  to  the  hills  old  limpers  ! 

I  do  not  think  you  belong  here  anyhow. 

But  there  is  one  thing  that  belongs  here  —  shall  I  tell  you  what  it 
is,  gentlemen  of  Boston? 

I  will  whisper  it  to  the  Mayor,  he  shall   send   a   committee   to 

England, 
They  shall  get  a  grant  from  the  Parliament,  go  with  a  cart  to  the 

royal  vault, 
Dig  out  King  George's  coffin,  unwrap  him  quick  from  the  grave' 

clothes,  box  up  his  bones  for  a  journey, 


BY  THE  ROADSIDE.  2 1 1 

Find  a  swift  Yankee  clipper  —  here  is  freight  for  you,  black-bellied 

clipper, 
Up  with  your  anchor  —  shake  out  your  sails  —  steer  straight  toward 

Boston  bay. 

Now  call  for  the  President's  marshal  again,  bring  out  the  govern 
ment  cannon, 

Fetch  home  the  roarers  from  Congress,  make  another  procession, 
guard  it  with  foot  and  dragoons. 

This  centre-piece  for  them ; 

Look,  all  orderly  citizens  —  look  from  the  windows,  women  ! 

The  committee  open  the  box,  set  up  the  regal  ribs,  glue  those  that 

will  not  stay, 
Clap  the  skull  on  top  of  the  ribs,  and  clap  a  crown  on  top  of  the 

skull. 

You  have  got  your  revenge,  old  buster  —  the  crown  is  come  to  its 
own,  and  more  than  its  own. 

Stick  your  hands  in  your  pockets,  Jonathan  —  you  are  a  made 

man  from  this  day, 
You  are  mighty  cute  —  and  here  is  one  of  your  bargains. 


EUROPE, 

The  ?2d  and  7^d  Years  of  These  States. 

SUDDENLY  out  of  its  stale  and  drowsy  lair,  the  lair  of  slaves, 
Like  lightning  it  le'pt  forth  half  startled  at  itself, 
Its  feet  upon  the  ashes  and  the  rags,  its  hands  tight  to  the  throats 
of  kings. 

O  hope  and  faith  ! 

O  aching  close  of  exiled  patriots*  lives  ! 

O  many  a  sicken'd  heart ! 

Turn  back  unto  this  day  and  make  yourselves  afresh. 

And  you,  paid  to  defile  the  People  —  you  liars,  mark  ! 

Not  for  numberless  agonies,  murders,  lusts, 

For  court  thieving  in  its  manifold  mean  forms,  worming  from  his 

simplicity  the  poor  man's  wages, 
For  many  a  promise  sworn  by  royal  lips  and  broken  and  laugh'd 

at  in  the  breaking, 


212  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Then  in  their  power  not  for  all  these  did  the  blows  strike  revenge, 

or  the  heads  of  the  nobles  fall ; 
The  People  scorn'd  the  ferocity  of  kings. 

But  the  sweetness  of  mercy  brew'd  bitter  destruction,  and  the 

frighten'd  monarchs  come  back, 

Each  comes  in  state  with  his  train,  hangman,  priest,  tax-gatherer, 
Soldier,  lawyer,  lord,  jailer,  and  sycophant. 

Yet  behind  all  lowering  stealing,  lo,  a  shape, 

Vague  as  the  night,  draped  interminably,  head,  front  and  form,  in 

scarlet  folds, 

Whose  face  and  eyes  none  may  see, 
Out  of  its  robes  only  this,  the  red  robes  lifted  by  the  arm, 
One  finger  crook'd  pointed  high  over  the  top,  like  the  head  of  a 

snake  appears. 

Meanwhile   corpses  lie   in  new-made  graves,  bloody  corpses  of 

young  men, 
The  rope  of  the  gibbet  hangs  heavily,  the  bullets  of  princes  are 

flying,  the  creatures  of  power  laugh  aloud, 
And  all  these  things  bear  fruits,  and  they  are  good. 

Those  corpses  of  young  men, 

Those  martyrs  that  hang  from  the  gibbets,  those  hearts  pierc'd  by 

the  gray  lead, 
Cold  and  motionless  as  they  seern  live  elsewhere  with  unslaugh- 

ter'd  vitality. 

They  live  in  other  young  men  O  kings  ! 

They  live  in  brothers  again  ready  to  defy  you, 

They  were  purified  by  death,  they  were  taught  and  exalted. 

Not  a  grave  of  the  murder'd  for  freedom  but  grows  seed  for  free 
dom,  in  its  turn  to  bear  seed, 

Which  the  winds  carry  afar  and  re-sow,  and  the  rains  and  the 
snows  nourish. 

Not  a  disembodied  spirit  can  the  weapons  of  tyrants  let  loose, 
But  it   stalks   invisibly   over  the    earth,  whispering,  counseling, 
cautioning. 

Liberty,  let  others  despair  of  you  —  I  never  despair  of  you. 

Is  the  house  shut  ?  is  the  master  away  ? 
Nevertheless,  be  ready,  be  not  weary  of  watching, 
He  will  soon  return,  his  messengers  come  anon, 


BY  THE  ROADSIDE.  213 

A   HAND-MIRROR. 

HOLD  it  up  sternly  —  see  this  it  sends  back,  (who  is  it?  is  it 

you?) 

Outside  fair  costume,  within  ashes  and  filth, 
No  more  a  flashing  eye,  no  more  a  sonorous  voice  or  springy 

step, 

Now  some  slave's  eye,  voice,  hands,  step, 

A  drunkard's  breath,  unwholesome  eater's  face,  venerealee's  fleshy 
Lungs  rotting  away  piecemeal,  stomach  sour  and  cankerous, 
Joints  rheumatic,  bowels  clogged  with  abomination, 
Blood  circulating  dark  and  poisonous  streams, 
Words  babble,  hearing  and  touch  callous, 
No  brain,  no  heart  left,  no  magnetism  of  sex ; 
Such  from  one  look  in  this  looking-glass  ere  you  go  hence^ 
Such  a  result  so  soon  —  and  from  such  a  beginning  ! 


GODS. 

LOVER  divine  and  perfect  Comrade, 
Waiting  content,  invisible  yet,  but  certain, 
Be  thou  my  God. 

Thou,  thou,  the  Ideal  Man, 
Fair,  able,  beautiful,  content,  and  loving, 
Complete  in  body  and  dilate  in  spirit, 
.  Be  thou  my  God. 

O  Death,  (for  Life  has  served  its  turn,) 
Opener  and  usher  to  the  heavenly  mansion, 
Be  thou  my  God. 

Aught,  aught  of  mightiest,  best  I  see,  conceive,  or  know, 
(To  break  the  stagnant  tie  —  thee,  thee  to  free,  O  soul,) 
Be  thou  my  God. 

All  great  ideas,  the  races'  aspirations, 
All  heroisms,  deeds  of  rapt  enthusiasts, 
Be  ye  my  Gods. 

Or  Time  and  Space, 

Or  shape  of  Earth  divine  and  wondrous, 
Or  some  fair  shape  I  viewing,  worship, 
Or  lustrous  orb  of  sun  or  star  by  night, 
Be  ye  my  Gods. 


214  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

GERMS. 

FORMS,  qualities,  lives,  humanity,  language,  thoughts, 

The  ones  known,  and  the  ones  unknown,  the  ones  on  the  stars, 

The  stars  themselves,  some  shaped,  others  unshaped, 

Wonders  as  of  those  countries,  the  soil,  trees,  cities,  inhabitants, 

whatever  they  may  be, 
Splendid  suns,  the  moons  and  rings,  the  countless  combinations 

and  effects, 
Such-like,  and   as  good   as  such-like,  visible  here  or  anywhere, 

stand  provided  for  in  a  handful  of  space,  which  I  extend 

my  arm  and  half  enclose  with  my  hand, 
That  containing  the  start  of  each  and  all,  the  virtue,  the  germs 

of  all. 

THOUGHTS. 

OF  ownership  —  as  if  one  fit  to  own  things  could  not  at  pleasure 

enter  upon  all,  and  incorporate  them  into  himself  or  herself ; 
Of  vista  —  suppose  some  sight  in  arriere  through  the  formative 

chaos,  presuming  the  growth,  fulness,  life,  now  attain 'd  on 

the  journey, 

(But  I  see  the  road  continued,  and  the  journey  ever  continued  ;) 
Of  what  was  once  lacking  on  earth,  and  in  due  time  has  become 

supplied  —  and  of  what  will  yet  be  supplied, 
Because  all  I  see  and  know  I  believe  to  have  its  main  purport  in 

what  will  yet  be  supplied. 


WHEN    I    HEARD   THE   LEARN'D   ASTRONOMER. 

WHEN  I  heard  the  learn'd  astronomer, 

;  When  the  proofs,  the  figures,  were  ranged  in  columns  before  me, 
When  I  was  shown  the  charts  and  diagrams,  to  add,  divide,  and 
measure  them, 

;  When  I  sitting  heard  the  astronomer  where  he  lectured  with  much 

applause  in  the  lecture-room, 
How  soon  unaccountable  I  became  tired  and  sick, 
Till  rising  and  gliding  out  I  wander'd  off  by  myself, 
In  the  mystical  moist  night-air,  and  from  time  to  time, 
Look'd  up  in  perfect  silence  at  the  stars. 


PERFECTIONS. 

ONLY  themselves  understand  themselves  and  the  like  of  themselves, 
As  souls  only  understand  souls. 


By  THE  ROADSIDE.  215 

O   ME!    O   LIFE! 

O  ME  !  O  life  !  of  the  questions  of  these  recurring, 

Of  the  endless  trains  of  the  faithless,  of  cities  fill'd  with  the 
foolish, 

Of  myself  forever  reproaching  myself,  (for  who  more  foolish  than 
I,  and  who  more  faithless  ?) 

Of  eyes  that  vainly  crave  the  light,  of  the  objects  mean,  of  the 
struggle  ever  renew'd, 

Of  the  poor  results  of  all,  of  the  plodding  and  sordid  crowds  I 
see  around  me, 

Of  the  empty  and  useless  years  of  the  rest,  with  the  rest  me  inter 
twined, 

The  question,  O  me  !  so  sad,  recurring  —  What  good  amid  these, 
Ome,  Olife? 

Answer. 

That  you  are  here  —  that  life  exists  and  identity, 

That  the  powerful  play  goes  on,  and  you  may  contribute  a  verse. 


TO   A   PRESIDENT. 

ALL  you  are  doing  and  saying  is  to  America  dangled  mirages, 
You  have  not  learn'd  of  Nature  —  of  the  politics  of  Nature  you 

have  not  learn'd  the  great  amplitude,  rectitude,  impartiality, 
You  have  not  seen  that  only  such  as  they  are  for  these  States, 
And  that  what  is  less  than  they  must  sooner  or  later  lift  off  from 

these  States. 


I   SIT  AND  LOOK   OUT. 

I  srr  and  look  out  upon  all  the  sorrows  of  the  world,  and  upon  all 

oppression  and  shame, 
I  hear  secret  convulsive  sobs  from  young  men  at   anguish  with 

themselves,  remorseful  after  deeds  done, 
I   see   in   low  life   the   mother  misused   by  her  children,  dying, 

neglected,  gaunt,  desperate, 
I  see  the  wife  misused  by  her  husband,  I   see    the   treacherous 

seducer  of  young  women, 
I  mark  the  ranklings  of  jealousy  and  unrequited  love  attempted  to 

be  hid,  I  see  these  sights  on  the  earth, 
I  see  the  workings  of  battle,  pestilence,  tyranny,  I  see  martyrs  and 

prisoners, 
I  observe  a  famine  at  sea,  I  observe  the  sailors  casting  lots  who 

shall  be  kill'd  to  preserve  the  lives  of  the  rest, 


2l6  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


I  observe  the  slights  and  degradations  cast  by  arrogant  persons 
upon  laborers,  the  poor,  and  upon  negroes,  and  the  like ; 

All  these  —  all  the  meanness  and  agony  without  end  I  sitting  look 
out  upon, 

See,  hear,  and  am  silent. 


TO  RICH   GIVERS. 

WHAT  you  give  me  I  cheerfully  accept, 

A  little  sustenance,  a  hut  and  garden,  a  little  money,  as  I  rendez 
vous  with  my  poems, 

A  traveler's  lodging  and  breakfast  as  I  journey  through  the  States, 
—  why  should  I  be  ashamed  to  own  such  gifts  ?  why  to 
advertise  for  them  ? 

For  I  myself  am  not  one  who  bestows  nothing  upon  man  and  woman, 

For  I  bestow  upon  any  man  or  woman  the  entrance  to  all  the  gifts 
of  the  universe. 


THE   DALLIANCE   OF  THE   EAGLES. 

SKIRTING  the  river  road,  (my  forenoon  walk,  my  rest,) 
Skyward  in  air  a  sudden  muffled  sound,  the  dalliance  of  the  eagles, 
The  rushing  amorous  contact  high  in  space  together, 
The  clinching  interlocking  claws,  a  living,  fierce,  gyrating  wheel, 
Four  beating  wings,  two  beaks,  a  swirling  mass  tight  grappling, 
In  tumbling  turning  clustering  loops,  straight  downward  falling, 
Till  o'er  the  river  pois'd,  the  twain  yet  one,  a  moment's  lull, 
A  motionless  still  balance  in  the  air,  then  parting,  talons  loosing, 
Upward  again  on  slow-firm  pinions  slanting,  their  separate  diverse 

flight, 
She  hers,  he  his,  pursuing. 

ROAMING   IN   THOUGHT. 

(After  reading  HEGEL.) 

ROAMING  in  thought  over  the  Universe,  I  saw  the  little  that  is 
Good  steadily  hastening  towards  immortality, 

And  the  vast  all  that  is  call'd  Evil  I  saw  hastening  to  merge  itself 
and  become  lost  and  dead. 


A  FARM   PICTURE. 

THROUGH  the  ample  open  door  of  the  peaceful  country  barn, 
A  sunlit  pasture  field  with  cattle  and  horses  feeding, 
And  haze  and  vista,  and  the  far  horizon  fading  away. 


BY  THE  ROADS  WE.  217 

A  CHILD'S   AMAZE. 

SILENT  and  amazed  even  when  a  little  boy, 

I  remember  I  heard  the  preacher  every  Sunday  put  God  in 

statements, 
As  contending  against  some  being  or  influence. 


THE   RUNNER. 

ON  a  flat  road  runs  the  well-train'd  runner, 
He  is  lean  and  sinewy  with  muscular  legs, 
He  is  thinly  clothed,  he  leans  forward  as  he  runs, 
With  lightly  closed  fists  and  arms  partially  rais'd. 


BEAUTIFUL  WOMEN. 

WOMEN  sit  or  move  to  and  fro,  some  old,  some  young, 
The  young  are  beautiful  —  but  the  old  are  more  beautiful  than  the 
young. 

MOTHER  AND   BABE. 

I  SEE  the  sleeping  babe  nestling  the  breast  of  its  mother, 
The  sleeping  mother  and  babe  —  hush'd,  I  study  them  long  and 
long. 

THOUGHT. 

OF  obedience,  faith,  adhesiveness  ; 

As  I  stand  aloof  and  look  there  is  to  me  something  profoundly 

affecting  in  large  masses  of  men  following  the  lead  of  those 

who  do  not  believe  in  men. 


VISOR'D. 

A  MASK,  a  perpetual  natural  disguiser  of  herself, 
Concealing  her  face,  concealing  her  form, 
Changes  and  transformations  every  hour,  every  moment, 
Falling  upon  her  even  when  she  sleeps. 


THOUGHT. 

OF  Justice  —  as  if  Justice  could  be  any  thing  but  the  same  ample 

law,  expounded  by  natural  judges  and  saviors, 
As  if  it  might  be  this  thing  or  that  thing,  according  to  decisions. 


2l8  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


GLIDING   O'ER  ALL. 

GLIDING  o'er  all,  through  all, 
Through  Nature,  Time,  and  Space, 
As  a  ship  on  the  waters  advancing, 
The  voyage  of  the  soul  —  not  life  alone, 
Death,  many  deaths  I'll  sing. 


HAST   NEVER   COME   TO   THEE  AN   HOUR. 

HAST  never  come  to  thee  an  hour, 

A  sudden  gleam  divine,  precipitating,  bursting  all  these  bubbles^ 

fashions,  wealth? 

These  eager  business  aims  —  books,  politics,  art,  amours, 
To  utter  nothingness  ? 

THOUGHT. 

OF  Equality  —  as  if  it  harm'd  me,  giving  others  the  same  chances 
and  rights  as  myself — as  if  it  were  not  indispensable  to 
my  own  rights  that  others  possess  the  same. 


TO   OLD   AGE. 

I  SEE  in  you  the  estuary  that  enlarges  and  spreads  itself  grandly  as 
it  pours  in  the  great  sea. 

LOCATIONS   AND   TIMES. 

LOCATIONS  and  times  —  what  is  it  in  me  that  meets  them  all,  when 
ever  and  wherever,  and  makes  me  at  home  ? 

Forms,  colors,  densities,  odors  —  what  is  it  in  me  that  corresponds 
with  them  ? 

OFFERINGS. 

A  THOUSAND  perfect  men  and  women  appear, 
Around  each  gathers  a  cluster  of  friends,  and  gay  children  and 
youths,  with  offerings. 


TO  THE   STATES, 

To  Identify  the  i6t&,  ijt/i,  or  iSt/i  Presidenliad. 

WHY  reclining,  interrogating  ?  why  myself  and  all  drowsing  ? 
What  deepening  twilight  —  scum  floating  atop  of  the  waters, 


DRUM-TAPS.  219 

Who  are  they  as  bats  and  night-dogs  askant  in  the  capitol  ? 
What  a  filthy  Presidentiad  !   (O  South,  your  torrid  suns  !  O  North, 

your  arctic  freezings  !) 
Are  those  really  Congressmen  ?  are  those  the  great  Judges  ?  is  that 

the  President? 
Then  I  will  sleep  awhile  yet,  for  I  see  that  these  States  sleep,  for 

reasons ; 
(With  gathering  murk,  with  muttering  thunder  and  lambent  shoots 

we  all  duly  awake, 
South,  North,  East,  West,  inland  and  seaboard,  we  will  surely 

awake.) 


DRUM-TAPS. 


FIRST  O   SONGS   FOR   A   PRELUDE. 

FIRST   O  songs  for  a  prelude, 
Lightly  strike  on  the  stretch'd  tympanum  pride  and  joy 

in  my  city, 

How  she  led  the  rest  to  arms,  how  she  gave  the  cue, 
How  at  once  with  lithe  limbs  unwaiting  a  moment  she  sprang, 
(O  superb  !  O  Manhattan,  my  own,  my  peerless  ! 
O  strongest  you  in  the  hour  of  danger,  in  crisis  !  O  truer  than  steel !) 
How  you  sprang  —  how  you  threw  off  the  costumes  of  peace  with 

indifferent  hand, 
How  your  soft  opera-music  changed,  and  the  drum  and  fife  were 

heard  in  their  stead, 
How  you  led  to  the  war,  (that  shall  serve  for  our  prelude,  songs 

of  soldiers,) 
How  Manhattan  drum-taps  led. 

Forty  years  had  I  in  my  city  seen  soldiers  parading, 

Forty  years  as  a  pageant,  till  unawares  the  lady  of  this  teeming 

and  turbulent  city, 

Sleepless  amid  her  ships,  her  houses,  her  incalculable  wealth, 
With  her  million  children  around  her,  suddenly, 
At  dead  of  night,  at  news  from  the  south, 
Incens'd  struck  with  clinch'd  hand  the  pavement. 

A  shock  electric,  the  night  sustain'd  it, 

Till  with  ominous  hum  our  hive  at  daybreak  pour'd  out  its  myriads. 
15 


22O  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

From  the  houses  then  and  the  workshops,  and  through  all  the 

doorways, 
Leapt  they  tumultuous,  and  lo  !  Manhattan  arming. 

To  the  drum-taps  prompt, 
The  young  men  falling  in  and  arming, 

The   mechanics   arming,  (the  trowel,  the  jack-plane,  the  black 
smith's  hammer,  tost  aside  with  precipitation,) 
The  lawyer  leaving  his  office  and  arming,  the  judge  leaving  the 

court, 
The   driver  deserting  his  wagon   in   the   street,   jumping  down, 

throwing  the  reins  abruptly  down  on  the  horses'  backs, 
The  salesman  leaving  the  store,  the  boss,  book-keeper,  porter,  all 

leaving ; 

Squads  gather  everywhere  by  common  consent  and  arm, 
The  new  recruits,  even  boys,  the  old  men  show  them  how  to  wear 

their  accoutrements,  they  buckle  the  straps  carefully, 
Outdoors  arming,  indoors  arming,  the  flash  of  the  musket-barrels, 
The  white  tents  cluster  in  camps,  the  arm'd  sentries  around,  the 

sunrise  cannon  and  again  at  sunset, 
Arm'd  regiments   arrive   every  day,  pass   through   the   city,  and 

embark  from  the  wharves, 
(How  good  they  look  as  they  tramp  down  to  the  river,  sweaty, 

with  their  guns  on  their  shoulders  ! 
How  I  love  them  !  how  I  could  hug  them,  with  their  brown  faces 

and  their  clothes  and  knapsacks  cover'd  with  dust !) 
The  blood  of  the  city  up  —  arm'd  !  arm'd  !  the  cry  everywhere, 
The  flags  flung  out  from  the  steeples  of  churches  and  from  all  the 

public  buildings  and  stores, 
The  tearful  parting,  the  mother  kisses  her  son,  the  son  kisses  his 

mother, 
(Loth  is  the  mother  to  part,  yet  not  a  word  does  she  speak  to 

detain  him,) 
The  tumultuous  escort,  the  ranks  of  policemen  preceding,  clearing 

the  way, 
The  unpent  enthusiasm,  the  wild  cheers  of  the  crowd  for  their 

favorites, 
The  artillery,  the   silent   cannons   bright  as   gold,  drawn   along, 

rumble  lightly  over  the  stones, 
(Silent  cannons,  soon  to  cease  your  silence, 
Soon  unlimber'd  to  begin  the  red  business ;) 
All  the  mutter  of  preparation,  all  the  determin'd  arming, 
The  hospital  service,  the  lint,  bandages  and  medicines, 
The  women  volunteering  for  nurses,  the  work  begun  for  in  earnest, 

no  mere  parade  now ; 


DRUM-TAPS.  221 


War !   an  arm'd  race  is  advancing !   the  welcome   for  battle,  no 

turning  away ; 
War  !  be  it  weeks,  months,  or  years,  an  arm'd  race  is  advancing 

to  welcome  it. 

Mannahatta  a-march  —  and  it's  O  to  sing  it  well ! 
It's  O  for  a  manly  life  in  the  camp. 

And  the  sturdy  artillery, 

The  guns  bright  as  gold,  the  work  for  giants,  to  serve  well  the  guns, 

Unlimber  them  !  (no  more  as  the  past  forty  years  for  salutes  for 

courtesies  merely, 
Put  in  something  now  besides  powder  and  wadding.) 

And  you  lady  of  ships,  you  Mannahatta, 

Old  matron  of  this  proud,  friendly,  turbulent  city, 

Often  in  peace  and  wealth  you  were  pensive  or  covertly  frown'd 

amid  all  your  children, 
But  now  you  smile  with  joy  exulting  old  Mannahatta. 


EIGHTEEN   SIXTY-ONE. 

ARM'D  year  —  year  of  the  struggle, 

No  dainty  rhymes  or  sentimental  love  verses  for  you  terrible  year, 

Not  you  as  some  pale  poetling  seated  at  a  desk  lisping  cadenzas 

piano, 
But  as  a  strong  man  erect,  clothed  in  blue   clothes,  advancing, 

carrying  a  rifle  on  your  shoulder, 
With  well-gristled  body  and  sunburnt  face  and  hands,  with  a  knife 

in  the  belt  at  your  side, 
As  I  heard  you  shouting  loud,  your  sonorous  voice  ringing  across 

the  continent, 

Your  masculine  voice  O  year,  as  rising  amid  the  great  cities, 
Amid  the  men  of  Manhattan  I  saw  you  as  one  of  the  workmen, 

the  dwellers  in  Manhattan, 
Or  with  large   steps   crossing  the   prairies   out   of  Illinois   and 

Indiana, 
Rapidly  crossing  the  West  with  springy  gait  and  descending  the 

Alleghanies, 
Or  down  from  the   great  lakes  or  in   Pennsylvania,  or  on   deck 

along  the  Ohio  river, 
Or  southward  along  the  Tennessee  or  Cumberland  rivers,  or  at 

Chattanooga  on  the  mountain  top, 
Saw  I  your  gait  and  saw  I  your  sinewy  limbs  clothed   in  blue. 

bearing  weapons,  robust  year, 


222  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Heard  your  determin'd  voice  launch'd  forth  again  and  again, 
Year  that  suddenly  sang  by  the  mouths  of  the  round-lipp'd  cannon, 
I  repeat  you,  hurrying,  crashing,  sad,  distracted  year. 

BEAT!   BEAT!    DRUMS! 

BEAT  !  beat !  drums  !  —  blow  !  bugles  !  blow  ! 

Through   the  windows  —  through   doors  —  burst   like   a  ruthless 

force, 

Into  the  solemn  church,  and  scatter  the  congregation, 
Into  the  school  where  the  scholar  is  studying ; 
Leave  not  the  bridegroom  quiet  —  no  happiness  must   he   have 

now  with  his  bride, 
Nor  the  peaceful  farmer  any  peace,  ploughing  his  field  or  gathering 

his  grain, 
So  fierce  you  whirr  and  pound  you  drums  —  so  shrill  you  bugles 

blow. 

Beat !  beat !  drums  !  —  blow  !  bugles  !  blow  ! 

Over  the  traffic   of  cities  —  over  the   rumble   of  wheels   in   the 

streets ; 
Are  beds  prepared  for  sleepers  at  night  in  the  houses  ?  no  sleepers 

must  sleep  in  those  beds, 
No  bargainers'  bargains  by  day  —  no   brokers    or  speculators  — 

would  they  continue  ? 

Would  the  talkers  be  talking?  would  the  singer  attempt  to  sing? 
Would  the  lawyer  rise  in  the  court  to  state  his  case  before  the 

judge? 
Then  rattle  quicker,  heavier  drums  —  you  bugles  wilder  blow. 

Beat !  beat !  drums  !  —  blow  !  bugles  !  blow  ! 

Make  no  parley — stop  for  no  expostulation, 

Mind  not  the  timid  —  mind  not  the  weeper  or  prayer, 

Mind  not  the  old  man  beseeching  the  young  man, 

Let  not  the  child's  voice  be  heard,  nor  the  mother's  entreaties, 

Make  even  the  trestles  to  shake  the  dead  where  they  lie  awaiting 

the  hearses, 
So  strong  you  thump  O  terrible  drums  —  so  loud  you  bugles  blow. 


FROM   PAUMANOK   STARTING   I    FLY   LIKE   A   BIRD. 

FROM  Paumanok  starting  I  fly  like  a  bird, 

Around  and  around  to  soar  to  sing  the  idea  of  all, 

To  the  north  betaking  myself  to  sing  there  arctic  songs, 


DRUM-TAPS.  22$ 

To  Kanada  till  I  absorb  Kanada  in  myself,  to  Michigan  then, 

To  Wisconsin,  Iowa,  Minnesota,  to  sing  their  songs,   (they  arft 

inimitable ;) 
Then  to  Ohio  and  Indiana  to  sing  theirs,  to  Missouri  and  Kansas 

and  Arkansas  to  sing  theirs, 
To  Tennessee  and  Kentucky,  to  the  Carolinas  and  Georgia  to  sing 

theirs, 
To  Texas  and  so  along  up  toward  California,  to  roam  accepted 

everywhere ; 

To  sing  first,  (to  the  tap  of  the  war-drum  if  need  be,) 
The  idea  of  all,  of  the  Western  world  one  and  inseparable, 
And  then  the  song  of  each  member  of  these  States. 


SONG   OF   THE   BANNER  AT   DAYBREAK. 

Poet. 

O  A  new  song,  a  free  song, 

Flapping,  flapping,  flapping,  flapping,  by  sounds,  by  voices  clearer, 

By  the  wind's  voice  and  that  of  the  drum, 

By  the  banner's  voice  and  child's  voice  and  sea's  voice  and  father's 

voice, 

Low  on  the  ground  and  high  in  the  air, 
On  the  ground  where  father  and  child  stand, 
In  the  upward  air  where  their  eyes  turn, 
Where  the  banner  at  daybreak  is  flapping. 

Words  !  book-words  !  what  are  you? 

Words  no  more,  for  hearken  and  see, 

My  song  is  there  in  the  open  air,  and  I  must  sing, 

With  the  banner  and  pennant  a-flapping. 

I'll  weave  the  chord  and  twine  in, 

Man's  desire  and  babe's  desire,  I'll  twine  them  in,  I'll  put  in  life, 
I'll  put  the  bayonet's  flashing  point,  I'll  let  bullets  and  slugs  whizz, 
(As  one  carrying  a  symbol  and  menace  far  into  the  future, 
Crying  with  trumpet  voice,  Arouse  and  beware!   Beware  and 

arouse  /) 

I'll  pour  the  verse  with  streams  of  blood,  full  of  volition,  full  of  joy, 
Then  loosen,  launch  forth,  to  go  and  compete, 
With  the  banner  and  pennant  a-flapping. 


Pennant. 


Come  up  here,  bard,  bard, 
Come  up  here,  soul,  soul, 


224  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Come  up  here,  dear  little  child, 

To  fly  in  the  clouds  and  winds  with  me,  and  play  with  the  measure 
less  light. 

Child. 

Father  what  is  that  in  the  sky  beckoning  to  me  with  long  finger  ? 
And  what  does  it  say  to  me  all  the  while  ? 

Father. 

Nothing  my  babe  you  see  in  the  sky, 

And  nothing  at  all  to  you  it  says  —  but  look  you  my  babe, 

Look  at  these  dazzling  things  in  the  houses,  and  see  you  the 

money-shops  opening, 
And  see  you  the  vehicles  preparing  to  crawl  along  the  streets  with 

goods ; 

These,  ah  these,  how  valued  and  toil'd  for  these  ! 
How  envied  by  all  the  earth. 

Poet. 

Fresh  and  rosy  red  the  sun  is  mounting  high, 

On  floats  the  sea  in  distant  blue  careering  through  its  channels, 

On  floats  the  wind  over  the  breast  of  the  sea  setting  in  toward 

land, 

The  great  steady  wind  from  west  or  west-by-south, 
Floating  so  buoyant  with  milk-white  foam  on  the  waters. 

But  I  am  not  the  sea  nor  the  red  sun, 

I  am  not  the  wind  with  girlish  laughter, 

Not  the  immense  wind  which  strengthens,  not  the  wind  which 

lashes, 

Not  the  spirit  that  ever  lashes  its  own  body  to  terror  and  death, 
But  I  am  that  which  unseen  comes  and  sings,  sings,  sings, 
Which  babbles  in  brooks  and  scoots  in  showers  on  the  land, 
Which  the  birds  know  in  the  woods  mornings  and  evenings, 
And  the  shore-sands  know  and  the  hissing  wave,  and  that  banner 

and  pennant, 
Aloft  there  flapping  and  flapping. 

Child. 

O  father  it  is  alive  —  it  is  full  of  people  —  it  has  children, 

0  now  it  seems  to  me  it  is  talking  to  its  children, 

1  hear  it  —  it  talks  to  me  —  O  it  is  wonderful ! 

O  it  stretches  —  it  spreads  and  runs  so  fast  —  O  my  father, 
It  is  so  broad  it  covers  the  whole  sky. 


DRUM- TAPS.  22$ 

Father. 

Cease,  cease,  my  foolish  babe, 

What  you  are  saying  is  sorrowful  to  me,  much  it  displeases  me ; 

Behold  with  the  rest  again  I  say,  behold  not  banners  and  pennants 

aloft, 
But  the  well-prepared  pavements  behold,  and  mark  the  solid-wall'd 

houses. 

Banner  and  Pennant. 

Speak  to  the  child  O  bard  out  of  Manhattan, 

To  our  children  all,  or  north  or  south  of  Manhattan, 

Point  this  day,  leaving  all  the  rest,  to  us  over  all  —  and  yet  we 

know  not  why, 

For  what  are  we,  mere  strips  of  cloth  profiting  nothing, 
Only  flapping  in  the  wind  ? 

Poet. 

I  hear  and  see  not  strips  of  cloth  alone, 

I  hear  the  tramp  of  armies,  I  hear  the  challenging  sentry, 

I  hear  the  jubilant  shouts  of  millions  of  men,  I  hear  Liberty ! 

I  hear  the  drums  beat  and  the  trumpets  blowing, 

I  myself  move  abroad  swift-rising  flying  then, 

I  use  the  wings  of  the  land-bird  and  use  the  wings  of  the  sea-bird, 

and  look  down  as  from  a  height, 
I  do  not  deny  the  precious  results  of  peace,  I  see  populous  cities 

with  wealth  incalculable, 
I  see  numberless  farms,  I  see  the  farmers  working  in  their  fields 

or  barns, 
I  see  mechanics  working,  I  see   buildings  everywhere   founded, 

going  up,  or  finish'd, 
I  see  trains  of  cars  swiftly  speeding  along  railroad  tracks  drawn 

by  the  locomotives, 
I  see  the  stores,  depots,  of  Boston,  Baltimore,  Charleston,  New 

Orleans, 
I  see  far  in  the  West  the  immense  area  of  grain,  I  dwell  awhile 

hovering, 

I  pass  to  the  lumber  forests  of  the  North,  and  again  to  the  South 
ern  plantation,  and  again  to  California ; 
Sweeping  the  whole  I  see  the  countless  profit,  the  busy  gatherings, 

earn'd  wages, 
See  the  Identity  formed  out  of  thirty-eight  spacious  and  haughty 

States,  (and  many  more  to  come,) 

See  forts  on  the  shores  of  harbors,  see  ships  sailing  in  and  out ; 
Then   over  all,   (aye  !   aye  !)   my  little   and   lengthen'd   pennant 

shaped  like  a  sword, 


226  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


Runs  swiftly  up  indicating  war  and  defiance  —  and  now  the  hal« 

yards  have  rais'd  it, 

Side  of  my  banner  broad  and  blue,  side  of  my  starry  banner, 
Discarding  peace  over  all  the  sea  and  land. 

Banner  and  Pennant. 

Yet  louder,  higher,  stronger,  bard  !  yet  farther,  wider  cleave  ! 
No  longer  let  our  children  deem  us  riches  and  peace  alone, 
We  may  be  terror  and  carnage,  and  are  so  now, 
Not  now  are  we  any  one  of  these  spacious  and  haughty  States, 

(nor  any  five,  nor  ten,) 

Nor  market  nor  depot  we,  nor  money-bank  in  the  city, 
But  these  and  all,  and  the  brown  and  spreading  land,  and  the 

mines  below,  are  ours, 

And  the  shores  of  the  sea  are  ours,  and  the  rivers  great  and  small, 
And  the  fields  they  moisten,  and  the  crops  and  the  fruits  are  ours, 
Bays  and  channels  and  ships  sailing  in  and  out  are  ours  —  while 

we  over  all, 
Over  the  area  spread  below,  the  three  or  four  millions  of  square 

miles,  the  capitals, 

The  forty  millions  of  people,  —  O  bard  !  in  life  and  death  supreme, 
We,  even  we,  henceforth  flaunt  out  masterful,  high  up  above, 
Not  for  the  present  alone,  for  a  thousand  years  chanting  through 

you, 
This  song  to  the  soul  of  one  poor  little  child. 

Child. 

O  my  father  I  like  not  the  houses, 

They  will  never  to  me  be  any  thing,  nor  do  I  like  money, 

But  to  mount  up  there  I  would  like,  O  father  dear,  that  banner  I 

like, 
That  pennant  I  would  be  and  must  be. 

Father. 

Child  of  mine  you  fill  me  with  anguish, 

To  be  that  pennant  would  be  too  fearful, 

Little  you  know  what  it  is  this  day,  and  after  this  day,  forever, 

It  is  to  gain  nothing,  but  risk  and  defy  every  thing, 

Forward  to  stand  in  front  of  wars  —  and  O,  such  wars  !  —  what 

have  you  to  do  with  them? 
With  passions  of  demons,  slaughter,  premature  death  ? 

Banner. 

Demons  and  death  then  I  sing, 

Put  in  sll,  aye  all  will  I,  sword-shaped  pennant  for  war, 


DRUM-TAPS.  227 

And  a  pleasure  new  and  ecstatic,  and  the  prattled  yearning  of 

children, 
Blent  with  the  sounds  of  the  peaceful  land  and  the  liquid  wash 

of  the  sea, 

And  the  black  ships  fighting  on  the  sea  envelop'd  in  smoke, 
And  the  icy  cool  of  the  far,  far  north,  with  rustling  cedars  and 

pines, 
And  the  whirr  of  drums  and  the  sound  of  soldiers  marching,  and 

the  hot  sun  shining  south, 
And  the  beach-waves  combing  over  the   beach   on   my  Eastern 

shore,  and  my  Western  shore  the  same, 
And  all  between  those  shores,  and  my  ever  running  Mississippi 

with  bends  and  chutes, 
And  my  Illinois  fields,  and  my  Kansas  fields,  and  my  fields  of 

Missouri, 
The  Continent,  devoting  the  whole  identity  without  reserving  an 

atom, 
Pour  in  !  whelm  that  which  asks,  which  sings,  with  all  and  the 

yield  of  all, 

Fusing  and  holding,  claiming,  devouring  the  whole, 
No  more  with  tender  lip,  nor  musical  labial  sound, 
But  out  of  the  night  emerging  for  good,  our  voice  persuasive  no 

more, 
Croaking  like  crows  here  in  the  wind. 


Post. 

My  limbs,  my  veins  dilate,  my  theme  is  clear  at  last, 

Banner  so  broad  advancing  out  of  the  night,  I  sing  you  haughty 

and  resolute, 
I   burst   through  where    I  waited  long,  too   long,  deafen'd   and 

blinded, 

My  hearing  and  tongue  are  come  to  me,  (a  little  child  taught  me,) 
I  hear  from  above  O  pennant  of  war  your  ironical  call  and  demand, 
Insensate  !  insensate  !  (yet  I  at  any  rate  chant  you,)  O  banner  ! 
Not  houses  of  peace  indeed  are  you,  nor  any  nor  all  their  pros 
perity,  (if  need  be,  you  shall  again  have  every  one  of  those 

nouses  to  destroy  them, 
You  thought  not  to  destroy  those  valuable  houses,  standing  fast, 

full  of  comfort,  built  with  money, 
May  they  stand  fast,  then  ?  not  an  hour  except  you  above  them 

and  all  stand  fast ;) 
O  banner,  not  money  so  precious  are  you,  not  farm  produce  you, 

nor  the  material  good  nutriment, 
Nor  excellent  stores,  nor  landed  on  wharves  from  the  ships, 


228  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Not  the  superb  ships  with  sail-power  or  steam-power,  fetching  and 
carrying  cargoes, 

Nor  machinery,  vehicles,  trade,  nor  revenues  —  but  you  as  hence 
forth  I  see  you, 

Running  up  out  of  the  night,  bringing  your  cluster  of  stars,  (ever- 
enlarging  stars,) 

Divider  of  daybreak  you,  cutting  the  air,  toftch'd  by  the  sun, 
measuring  the  sky, 

(Passionately  seen  and  yearn'd  for  by  one  poor  little  child, 

While  others  remain  busy  or  smartly  talking,  forever  teaching 
thrift,  thrift ;) 

0  you  up  there  !  O  pennant !  where  you  undulate  like  a  snake 

hissing  so  curious, 
Out  of  reach,  an  idea  only,  yet  furiously  fought  for,  risking  bloody 

death,  loved  by  me, 
So  loved  —  O  you  banner  leading  the  day  with  stars  brought  from 

the  night ! 
Valueless,  object  of  eyes,  over  all  and  demanding  all  —  (absolute 

owner  of  all)  —  O  banner  and  pennant ! 

1  too   leave   the   rest  —  great   as   it   is,  it  is   nothing  —  houses, 

machines  are  nothing  —  I  see  them  not, 
I  see  but  you,  O  warlike  pennant !  O  banner  so  broad,  with  stripes, 

I  sing  you  only, 
Flapping  up  there  in  the  wind. 


RISE   O   DAYS   FROM   YOUR  FATHOMLESS   DEEPS. 


RISE  O  days  from  your  fathomless  deeps,  till  you  loftier,  fiercer 

sweep, 
Long  for  my  soul  hungering  gymnastic  I  devour'd  what  the  earth 

gave  me, 
Long  I  roam'd  the  woods  of  the  north,  long  I  watch'd  Niagara 

pouring, 
I  travel'd  the  prairies  over  and  slept  on  their  breast,  I  cross'd  the 

Nevadas,  I  cross'd  the  plateaus, 
I  ascended  the  towering  rocks  along  the  Pacific,  I  sail'd  out  to 

sea, 

I  sail'd  through  the  storm,  I  was  refresh'd  by  the  storm, 
I  watch'd  with  joy  the  threatening  maws  of  the  waves, 
I  mark'd  the  white  combs  where  they  career'd  so  high,  curling 

over, 
I  heard  the  wind  piping,  I  saw  the  black  clouds, 


DRUM-TAPS.  229 

Saw  from  below  what  arose  and  mounted,  (O  superb  !  O  wild  as 

my  heart,  and  powerful !) 

Heard  the  continuous  thunder  as  it  bellow'd  after  the  lightning, 
Noted  the  slender  and  jagged  threads  of  lightning  as  sudden  and 

fast  amid  the  din  they  chased  each  other  across  the  sky ; 
These,  and  such  as  these,  I,  elate,  saw  —  saw  with  wonder,  yet 

pensive  and  masterful, 

All  the  menacing  might  of  the  globe  uprisen  around  me, 
Yet  there  with  my  soul  I  fed,  I  fed  content,  supercilious. 


Twos  well,  O  soul  — 'twas  a  good  preparation  you  gave  me, 

Now  we  advance  our  latent  and  ampler  hunger  to  fill, 

Now  we  go  forth  to  receive  what  the  earth  and  the   sea  never 

gave  us, 
Not  through  the  mighty  woods  we  go,  but  through  the  mightier 

cities, 

Something  for  us  is  pouring  now  more  than  Niagara  pouring, 
Torrents  of  men,  (sources   and  rills   of  the   Northwest   are  you 

indeed  inexhaustible  ?) 
What,  to  pavements  and  homesteads  here,  what  were  those  storms 

of  the  mountains  and  sea? 

What,  to  passions  I  witness  around  me  to-day  ?  was  the  sea  risen  ? 
Was  the  wind  piping  the  pipe  of  death  under  the  black  clouds  ? 
Lo  !  from  deeps  more  unfathomable,  something  more  deadly  and 

savage, 
Manhattan  rising,  advancing  with  menacing  front  —  Cincinnati, 

Chicago,  unchain'd ; 

What  was  that  swell  I  saw  on  the  ocean  ?  behold  what  comes  here, 
How  it  climbs  with  daring  feet  and  hands  —  how  it  dashes  ! 
How  the  true  thunder  bellows   after  the   lightning  —  how  bright 

the  flashes  of  lightning  ! 
How  Democracy  with  desperate  vengeful  port  strides  on,  shown 

through  the  dark  by  those  flashes  of  lightning  ! 
(Yet  a  mournful  wail  and  low  sob  I  fancied  I  heard  through  the 

dark, 
In  a  lull  of  the  deafening  confusion.) 


Thunder  on  !  stride  on,  Democracy  !  strike  with  vengeful  stroke  ! 
And  do  you  rise  higher  than  ever  yet  O  days,  O  cities  ! 
Crash  heavier,  heavier  yet  O  storms  !  you  have  done  me  good, 
My  soul  prepared  in  the  mountains  absorbs  your  immortal  strong 
nutriment, 


230  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Long   had  I  walk'd  my  cities,  my  country  roads  through  farms, 

only  half  satisfied, 
One   doubt   nauseous   undulating  like   a  snake,  crawl'd   on  the 

ground  before  me, 
Continually  preceding  my  steps,  turning  upon  me  oft,  ironically 

hissing  low ; 
The  cities  I  loved  so  well  I  abandon'd  and  left,  I  sped  to  the 

certainties  suitable  to  me, 
Hungering,  hungering,  hungering,  for  primal  energies  and  Nature's 

dauntlessness, 

I  refresh'd  myself  with  it  only,  I  could  relish  it  only, 
I  waited  the  bursting  forth  of  the  pent  fire  —  on  the  water  and  air 

I  waited  long ; 

But  now  I  no  longer  wait,  I  am  fully  satisfied,  I  am  glutted, 
I  have  witness'd   the  true  lightning,  I  have  witness'd   my  cities 

electric, 

I  have  lived  to  behold  man  burst  forth  and  warlike  America  rise, 
Hence  I  will  seek  no  more  the  food  of  the  northern  solitary  wilds, 
No  more  the  mountains  roam  or  sail  the  stormy  sea. 


VIRGINIA  — THE   WEST. 

THE  noble  sire  fallen  on  evil  days, 
I  saw  with  hand  uplifted,  menacing,  brandishing, 
(Memories  of  old  in  abeyance,  love  and  faith  in  abeyance,) 
The  insane  knife  toward  the  Mother  of  All. 

The  noble  son  on  sinewy  feet  advancing, 

I  saw,  out  of  the  land  of  prairies,  land  of  Ohio's  waters  and  of 

Indiana, 

To  the  rescue  the  stalwart  giant  hurry  his  plenteous  offspring, 
Drest  in  blue,  bearing  their  trusty  rifles  on  their  shoulders. 

Then  the  Mother  of  All  with  calm  voice  speaking, 

As   to   you  Rebellious,   (I   seemed  to  hear  her  say,)  why  strive 

against  me,  and  why  seek  my  life  ? 
When  you  yourself  forever  provide  to  defend  me  ? 
For  you  provided  me  Washington — and  now  these  also. 


CITY  OF   SHIPS. 

CITY  of  ships ! 

(O  the  black  ships  !  O  the  fierce  ships  ! 

O  the  beautiful  sharp-bow'd  steam-ships  and  sail-ships !) 


DRUM-TAPS.  231 

City  of  the  world  !   (for  all  races  are  here, 

All  the  lands  of  the  earth  make  contributions  here ;) 

City  of  the  sea  !  city  of  hurried  and  glittering  tides  ! 

City  whose  gleeful  tides  continually  rush  or  recede,  whirling  in 
and  out  with  eddies  and  foam  ! 

City  of  wharves  and  stores  —  city  of  tall  facades  of  marble  and 
iron  ! 

Proud  and  passionate  city  —  mettlesome,  mad,  extravagant  city  ! 

Spring  up  O  city  —  not  for  peace  alone,  but  be  indeed  yourself, 
warlike  ! 

Fear  not  —  submit  to  no  models  but  your  own  O  city  ! 

Behold  me  —  incarnate  me  as  I  have  incarnated  you  ! 

I  have  rejected  nothing  you  offer'd  me — whom  you  adopted  I 
have  adopted, 

Good  or  bad  I  never  question  you  —  I  love  all  —  I  do  not  con 
demn  any  thing, 

I  chant  and  celebrate  all  that  is  yours  —  yet  peace  no  more, 

In  peace  I  chanted  peace,  but  now  the  drum  of  war  is  mine, 

War,  red  war  is  my  song  through  your  streets,  O  city  ! 


THE   CENTENARIAN'S   STORY. 

Volunteer  of  1861-2,  (at  Washington  Park^  Brooklyn,  assisting  the  Centenarian!) 

GIVE  me  your  hand  old  Revolutionary, 

The  hill-top  is  nigh,  but  a  few  steps,  (make  room  gentlemen,) 

Up  the  path  you  have  follow'd  me  well,  spite  of  your  hundred  and 

extra  years, 

You  can  walk  old  man,  though  your  eyes  are  almost  done, 
Your  faculties  serve  you,  and  presently  I  must  have  them  serve  me. 

Rest,  while  I  tell  what  the  crowd  around  us  means, 
On  the  plain  below  recruits  are  drilling  and  exercising, 
There  is  the  camp,  one  regiment  departs  to-morrow, 
Do  you  hear  the  officers  giving  their  orders  ? 
Do  you  hear  the  clank  of  the  muskets  ? 

Why  what  comes  over  you  now  old  man  ? 

Why  do  you  tremble  and  clutch  my  hand  so  convulsively? 

The  troops  are  but  drilling,  they  are  yet  surrounded  with  smiles. 

Around  them  at  hand  the  well-drest  friends  and  the  women, 

While  splendid  and  warm  the  afternoon  sun  shines  down, 

Green  the  midsummer  verdure  and    fresh    blows    the    dallying 

breeze, 
O'er  proud  and  peaceful  cities  and  arm  of  the  sea  between. 


232  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

But  drill  and  parade  are  over,  they  march  back  to  quarters, 
Only  hear  that  approval  of  hands  !  hear  what  a  clapping  ! 

As  wending  the  crowds  now  part  and  disperse  —  but  we  old  man, 
Not  for  nothing  have  I  brought  you  hither  —  we  must  remain, 
You  to  speak  in  your  turn,  and  I  to  listen  and  tell. 

The  Centenarian. 

When  I  clutch'd  your  hand  it  was  not  with  terror, 

But  suddenly  pouring  about  me  here  on  every  side, 

And  below  there  where  the  boys  were  drilling,  and  up  the  slopes 

they  ran, 
And  where  tents  are  pitch'd,  and  wherever  you  see  south  and 

south-east  and  south-west, 

Over  hills,  across  lowlands,  and  in  the  skirts  of  woods, 
And  along  the  shores,  in  mire  (now  fill'd  over)  came  again  and 

suddenly  raged, 
As  eighty-five  years  a-gone  no  mere  parade  receiv'd  with  applause 

of  friends, 
But  a  battle  which  I  took  part  in  myself —  aye,  long  ago  as  it  is, 

I  took  part  in  it, 
Walking  then  this  hilltop,  this  same  ground. 

Aye,  this  is  the  ground, 

My  blind  eyes  even  as  I  speak  behold  it  re-peopled  from  graves, 
The  years  recede,  pavements  and  stately  houses  disappear, 
Rude  forts  appear  again,  the  old  hoop'd  guns  are  mounted, 
I  see  the  lines  of  rais'd  earth  stretching  from  river  to  bay, 
I  mark  the  vista  of  waters,  I  mark  the  uplands  and  slopes ; 
Here  we  lay  encamp'd,  it  was  this  time  in  summer  also. 

As  I  talk  I  remember  all,  I  remember  the  Declaration, 

It  was  read  here,  the  whole  army  paraded,  it  was  read  to  us  here, 

By  his  staff  surrounded  the  General  stood  in  the  middle,  he  held 

up  his  unsheath'd  sword, 
It  glitter'd  in  the  sun  in  full  sight  of  the  army. 

Twas  a  bold  act  then  —  the  English  war-ships  had  just  arrived, 
We  could  watch  down  the  lower  bay  where  they  lay  at  anchor, 
And  the  transports  swarming  with  soldiers. 

A  few  days  more  and  they  landed,  and  then  the  battle. 

Twenty  thousand  were  brought  against  us, 
A  veteran  force  furnish'd  with  good  artillery. 


DRUM-TAPS.  233 

I  tell  not  now  the  whole  of  the  battle, 

But  one  brigade  early  in  the  forenoon  order'd  forward  to  engage 

the  red-coats, 

Of  that  brigade  I  tell,  and  how  steadily  it  march'd, 
And  how  long  and  well  it  stood  confronting  death. 

Who  do  you  think  that  was  marching  steadily  sternly  confronting 

death? 

It  was  the  brigade  of  the  youngest  men,  two  thousand  strong, 
Rais'd  in  Virginia  and  Maryland,  and  most  of  them  known  per 
sonally  to  the  General. 

Jauntily  forward  they  went  with  quick  step  toward  Gowanus'  waters, 
Till  of  a  sudden  unlook'd  for  by  defiles  through  the  woods,  gain'd 

at  night, 
The  British  advancing,  rounding  in  from  the  east,  fiercely  playing 

their  guns, 
That  brigade  of  the  youngest  was  cut  off  and  at  the  enemy's  mercy. 

The  General  watch'd  them  from  this  hill, 

They  made  repeated  desperate  attempts  to  burst  their  environment, 

Then  drew  close  together,  very  compact,  their  flag  flying  in  the 

middle, 
But  O  from  the  hills  how  the  cannon  were  thinning  and  thinning 

them  ! 

It  sickens  me  yet,  that  slaughter  ! 

I  saw  the  moisture  gather  in  drops  on  the  face  of  the  General. 

I  saw  how  he  wrung  his  hands  in  anguish. 

Meanwhile  the  British  manceuvr'd  to  draw  us  out  for  a  pitch'd 

battle, 
But  we  dared  not  trust  the  chances  of  a  pitch'd  battle. 

We  fought  the  fight  in  detachments, 

Sallying  forth  we  fought  at  several  points,  but  in  each  the  luck  was 

against  us, 
Our  foe  advancing,  steadily  getting  the  best  of  it,  push'd  us  back 

to  the  works  on  this  hill, 
Till  we  turn'd  menacing  here,  and  then  he  left  us. 

That  was  the  going  out  of  the  brigade  of  T  ^  youngest  men,  two 

thousand  strong, 
Few  return 'd,  nearly  all  remain  in  Brooklyn. 


234  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

That  and  here  my  General's  first  battle, 

No  women  looking  on  nor  sunshine  to  bask  in,  it  did  not  conclude 

with  applause, 
Nobody  clapp'd  hands  here  then. 

But  in  darkness  in  mist  on  the  ground  under  a  chill  rain, 

Wearied  that  night  we  lay  foil'd  and  sullen, 

While   scornfully  laugh'd   many  an  arrogant   lord  off  against  us 

encamp'd, 
Quite  within  hearing,  feasting,  clinking  wineglasses  together  over 

their  victory. 

So  dull  and  damp  and  another  day, 
But  the  night  of  that,  mist  lifting,  rain  ceasing, 
Silent  as  a  ghost  while  they  thought  they  were  sure  of  him,  my 
General  retreated. 

I  saw  him  at  the  river-side, 

Down  by  the  ferry  lit  by  torches,  hastening  the  embarcation ; 

My  General  waited  till  the  soldiers  and  wounded  were  all  pass'd 

over, 
And  then,  (it  was  just  ere  sunrise,)  these  eyes  rested  on  him  for 

the  last  time. 

Every  one  else  seem'd  filPd  with  gloom, 
Many  no  doubt  thought  of  capitulation. 

But  when  my  General  pass'd  me, 

As  he  stood  in  his  boat  and  look'd  toward  the  coming  sun, 

I  saw  something  different  from  capitulation. 

Terminus. 

Enough,  the  Centenarian's  story  ends, 
The  two,  the  past  and  present,  have  interchanged, 
I  myself  as  connecter,  as  chansonnier  of  a  great  future,  am  now 
speaking. 

And  is  this  the  ground  Washington  trod  ? 

And  these  waters  I  listlessly  daily  cross,  are  these  the  waters  he 

cross 'd, 
As  resolute  in  defeat  as  other  generals  in  their  proudest  triumphs  ? 

I  must  copy  the  story,  and  send  it  eastward  and  westward, 

I  must  preserve  that  look  as  it  beam'd  on  you  rivers  of  Brooklyn. 

See  —  as  the  annual  roiind  returns  the  phantoms  return, 
It  is  the  zth^^jJustnd  the  British  have  landed, 


DRUM-TAPS.  235 


The  battle  begins  and  goes  against  us,  behold  through  the  smoke 
Washington's  face, 

The  brigade  of  Virginia  and  Maryland  have  march'd  forth  to  inter 
cept  the  enemy, 

They  are  cut  off,  murderous  artillery  from  the  hills  plays  upon 
them, 

Rank  after  rank  falls,  while  over  them  silently  droops  the  flag, 

Baptized  that  day  in  many  a  young  man's  bloody  wounds, 

In  death,  defeat,  and  sisters',  mothers'  tears. 

Ah,  hills  and  slopes  of  Brooklyn  !  I  perceive  you  are  more  valuable 

than  your  owners  supposed  ; 

In  the  midst  of  you  stands  an  encampment  very  old, 
Stands  forever  the  camp  of  that  dead  brigade. 


CAVALRY   CROSSING  A  FORD. 

A  LINE  in  long  array  where  they  wind  betwixt  green  islands, 
They  take  a  serpentine  course,  their  arms  flash  in  the  sun  —  hark 

to  the  musical  clank, 
Behold  the  silvery  river,  in  it  the  splashing  horses  loitering  stop  to 

drink, 
Behold  the  brown-faced  men,  each  group,  each  person  a  picture, 

the  negligent  rest  on  the  saddles, 
Some  emerge  on  the  opposite  bank,  others  are  just  entering  the 

ford  —  while, 

Scarlet  and  blue  and  snowy  white, 
The  guidon  flags  flutter  gayly  in  the  wind. 


BIVOUAC   ON   A   MOUNTAIN   SIDE. 

I  SEE  before  me  now  a  traveling  army  halting, 

Below  a  fertile  valley  spread,  with  barns   and   the   orchards   of 

summer, 
Behind,  the  terraced  sides  of  a  mountain,  abrupt,  in  places  rising 

high, 
Broken,  with  rocks,  with  clinging  cedars,  with  tall  shapes  dingily 

seen, 
The  numerous  camp-fires  scatter'd  near  and  far,  some  away  up  on 

the  mountain, 
The   shadowy  forms   of  men   and   horses,   looming,  large-sized, 

flickering, 
And  over  all  the  sky  —  the  sky !  far,  far  out  of  reach,  studded, 

breaking  out,  the  eternal  stars. 
1G 


236  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


AN   ARMY   CORPS    ON   THE    MARCH. 

WITH  its  cloud  of  skirmishers  in  advance, 

With  now  the  sound  of  a  single  shot  snapping  like  a  whip,  and 

now  an  irregular  volley, 
The  swarming  ranks  press  on  and  on,  the  dense  brigades  press 

on, 

Glittering  dimly,  toiling  under  the  sun  —  the  dust-cover'd  men, 
In  columns  rise  and  fall  to  the  undulations  of  the  ground, 
With  artillery  interspers'd  —  the  wheels  rumble,  the  horses  sweat, 
As  the  army  corps  advances. 


BY   THE   BIVOUAC'S    FITFUL   FLAME. 

BY  the  bivouac's  fitful  flame, 

A  procession  winding  around  me,  solemn  and  sweet  and  slow — but 

first  I  note, 
The  tents  of  the   sleeping  army,   the   fields'  and  woods'    dim 

outline, 

The  darkness  lit  by  spots  of  kindled  fire,  the  silence, 
Like  a  phantom  far  or  near  an  occasional  figure  moving, 
The  shrubs  and  trees,  (as  I  lift  my  eyes  they  seem  to  be  stealthily 

watching  me,) 
While   wind   in   procession    thoughts,   O   tender  and   wondrous 

thoughts, 
Of  life  and  death,  of  home  and  the  past  and  loved,  and  of  those 

that  are  far  away ; 

A  solemn  and  slow  procession  there  as  I  sit  on  the  ground, 
By  the  bivouac's  fitful  flame. 


COME   UP   FROM   THE   FIELDS   FATHER. 

COME  up  from  the  fields  father,  here's  a  letter  from  our  Pete, 
And  come  to  the  front  door  mother,  here's  a  letter  from  thy  deal 
son. 

Lo,  'tis  autumn, 

Lo,  where  the  trees,  deeper  green,  yellower  and  redder, 

Cool  and  sweeten   Ohio's  villages  with  leaves   fluttering  in  the 

moderate  wind, 
Where  apples  ripe  in  the  orchards  hang  and  grapes  on  the  trellis'd 

vines, 

(Smell  you  the  smell  of  the  grapes  on  the  vines  ? 
Smell  you  the  buckwheat  where  the  bees  were  lately  buzzing?) 


DRUM-TAPS.  237 


Above  all,  lo,  the  sky  so  calm,  so  transparent  after  the  rain,  and 

with  wondrous  clouds, 
Below  too,  all  calm,  all  vital  and  beautiful,  and  the  farm  prospers 

well. 

Down  in  the  fields  all  prospers  well, 

But  now  from  the  fields  come  father,  come  at  the  daughter's  call, 

And  come  to  the  entry  mother,  to  the  front  door  come  right  away. 

Fast    as   she   can    she    hurries,   something   ominous,   her  steps 

trembling, 
She  does  not  tarry  to  smooth  her  hair  nor  adjust  her  cap. 

Open  the  envelope  quickly, 

O  this  is  not  our  son's  writing,  yet  his  name  is  sign'd, 

O  a  strange  hand  writes  for  our  dear  son,  O  stricken  mother's  soul ! 

All  swims  before  her  eyes,  flashes  with  black,  she  catches  the  main 

words  only, 
Sentences  broken,  gunshot  wound  in  the  breast,  cavalry  skirmish, 

taken  to  hospital, 
At  present  low,  but  will  soon  be  better. 

Ah  now  the  single  figure  to  me, 

Amid  all  teeming  and  wealthy  Ohio  with  all  its  cities  and  farms, 

Sickly  white  in  the  face  and  dull  in  the  head,  very  faint, 

By  the  jamb  of  a  door  leans. 

Grieve  not  so,  dear  mother,    (the   just-grown   daughter  speaks 

through  her  sobs, 

The  little  sisters  huddle  around  speechless  and  dismay'd,) 
See,  dearest  mother,  the  letter  says  Pete  will  soon  be  better. 

Alas  poor  boy,  he  will  never  be  better,  (nor  may-be  needs  to  be 

better,  that  brave  and  simple  soul,) 
While  they  stand  at  home  at  the  door  he  is  dead  already, 
The  only  son  is  dead. 

But  the  mother  needs  to  be  better, 

She  with  thin  form  presently  drest  in  black, 

By  day  her  meals  untouch'd,  then  at  night  fitfully  sleeping,  often 

waking, 

In  the  midnight  waking,  weeping,  longing  with  one  deep  longing, 
O  that  she  might  withdraw  unnoticed,  silent  from  life  escape  and 

withdraw, 
To  follow,  to  seek,  to  be  with  her  dear  dead  son. 


238  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

VIGIL  STRANGE  I  KEPT  ON  THE  FIELD  ONE  NIGHT, 

VIGIL  strange  I  kept  on  the  field  one  night ; 

When  you  my  son  and  my  comrade  dropt  at  my  side  that  day, 

One  look  I  but  gave  which  your  dear  eyes  return'd  with  a  look  I 

shall  never  forget, 
One  touch  of  your  hand  to  mine  O  boy,  reach'd  up  as  you  lay  on 

the  ground, 

Then  onward  I  sped  in  the  battle,  the  even-contested  battle, 
Till  late  in  the  night  reliev'd  to  the  place  at  last  again  I  made  my 

way, 
Found  you  in  death  so  cold  dear  comrade,  found  your  body  son 

of  responding  kisses,  (never  again  on  earth  responding,) 
Bared  your  face  in  the  starlight,  curious  the  scene,  cool  blew  the 

moderate  night-wind, 

Long  there  and  then  in  vigil  I  stood,  dimly  around  me  the  battle 
field  spreading, 

Vigil  wondrous  and  vigil  sweet  there  in  the  fragrant  silent  night, 
But  not  a  tear  fell,  not  even  a  long-drawn  sigh,  long,  long  I  gazed, 
Then  on  the  earth  partially  reclining  sat  by  your  side  leaning  my 

chin  in  my  hands, 
Passing  sweet  hours,  immortal  and  mystic  hours  with  you  dearest 

comrade  —  not  a  tear,  not  a  word, 
Vigil  of  silence,  love  and  death,  vigil  for  you  my  son  and  my 

soldier, 

As  onward  silently  stars  aloft,  eastward  new  ones  upward  stole, 
Vigil  final  for  you  brave  boy,  (I  could  not  save  you,  swift  was  your 

death, 
I  faithfully  loved  you  and  cared  for  you  living,  I  think  we  shall 

surely  meet  again,) 
Till  at   latest   lingering   of  the  night,  indeed  just   as  the   dawn 

appear'd, 

My  comrade  I  wrapt  in  his  blanket,  envelop 'd  well  his  form, 
Folded  the  blanket  well,  tucking  it  carefully  over  head  and  care 
fully  under  feet, 
And  there  and  then  and  bathed  by  the  rising  sun,  my  son  in  his 

grave,  in  his  rude-dug  grave  I  deposited, 
Ending  my  vigil  strange  with  that,  vigil  of  night  and  battle-field 

dim, 
Vigil    for    boy    of   responding    kisses,    (never  again    on    earth 

responding,) 
Vigil  for  comrade  swiftly  slain,  vigil  I  never  forget,  how  as  day 

brighten'd, 
I  rose  from  the  chill  ground  and  folded  my  soldier  well  in  his 

blanket, 
And  buried  him  where  he  fell. 


DRUM-TAPS.  239 


A  MARCH  IN  THE  RANKS  HARD-PREST,  AND  THE 
ROAD  UNKNOWN. 

A  MARCH  in  the  ranks  hard-prest,  and  the  road  unknown, 
A  route  through  a  heavy  wood  with  muffled  steps  in  the  darkness, 
Our  army  foil'd  with  loss  severe,  and  the  sullen  remnant  retreating, 
Till  after  midnight  glimmer  upon  us  the  lights  of  a  dim-lighted 

building, 

We  come  to  an  open  space  in  the  woods,  and  halt  by  the  dim- 
lighted  building, 
'Tis  a  large  old  church  at  the  crossing  roads,  now  an  impromptu 

hospital, 
Entering  but  for  a  minute  I  see  a  sight  beyond  all  the  pictures  and 

poems  ever  made, 
Shadows  of  deepest,  deepest  black,  just  lit  by  moving  candles  and 

lamps, 
And  by  one  great  pitchy  torch  stationary  with  wild  red  flame  and 

clouds  of  smoke, 
By  these,  crowds,  groups  of  forms  vaguely  I  see  on  the  floor,  some 

in  the  pews  laid  down, 
At  my  feet  more  distinctly  a  soldier,  a  mere  lad,  in   danger  of 

bleeding  to  death,  (he  is  shot  in  the  abdomen,) 
I  stanch  the  blood  temporarily,  (the  youngster's  face  is  white  as 

a  lily,) 
Then  before   I  depart  I  sweep  my  eyes  o'er  the  scene  fain   to 

absorb  it  all, 
Faces,  varieties,  postures  beyond  description,  most  in  obscurity, 

some  of  them  dead, 
Surgeons  operating,  attendants  holding  lights,  the  smell  of  ether, 

the  odor  of  blood, 
The  crowd,  O  the  crowd  of  the  bloody  forms,  the  yard  outside 

also  ffll'd, 
Some  on  the  bare  ground,  some  on  planks  or  stretchers,  some  in 

the  death-spasm  sweating, 

An  occasional  scream  or  cry,  the  doctor's  shouted  orders  or  calls, 
The  glisten  of  the  little  steel  instruments  catching  the  glint  of  the 

torches, 

These  I  resume  as  I  chant,  I  see  again  the  forms,  I  smell  the  odor, 
Then  hear  outside  the  orders  given,  Fall  in,  my  men,  fall  in  ; 
But  first  I  bend  to  the  dying  lad,  his  eyes  open,  a  half-smile  gives 

he  me, 
Then   the   eyes   close,  calmly  close,  and   I   speed   forth   to   the 

darkness, 

Resuming,  marching,  ever  in  darkness  marching,  on  in  the  ranks, 
The  unknown  road  still  marching. 


240  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

A    SIGHT    IN    CAMP    IN   THE   DAYBREAK   GRAY   AND 

DIM. 

A  SIGHT  in  camp  in  t':j  daybreak  gray  and  dim, 

As  from  my  tent  I  emerge  so  early  sleepless, 

As  slow  I  walk  in  the  cool  fresh  air  the  path  near  by  the  hospital 

tent, 
Three  forms  I  see  on  stretchers  lying,  brought  out  there  untendecl 

lying, 

Over  each  the  blanket  spread,  ample  brownish  woolen  blanket, 
Gray  and  heavy  blanket,  folding,  covering  all. 

Curious  I  halt  and  silent  stand, 

Then  wirh  linjht  lingers  I  from  the  face  of  the  nearest  the  first  just 

_i:t  the  blanket ; 
Who  are  you  elderly  man  so  gaunt   and   grim,  with  well-gray'd 

hair,  and  flesh  all  sunken  about  the  eye^  ? 
Who  are  you  my  dear  comrade  ? 

Then  to  the  second  I   step  —  and  who   are  you   my  child   and 

darling  ? 
Who  are  you  sweet  boy  with  cheeks  yet  blooming  ? 

Then  to  the  third  —  a  face  nor  child  nor  old,  very  calm,  as  of 

beautiful  yellow-white  ivory ; 
Young  man  I  think  I  know  you  —  I  think  this  face  is  the  face 

of  the  Christ  himself, 
Dead  and  divine  and  brother  of  all,  and  here  again  he  lies. 


AS   TOILSOME   I   WANDER'D   VIRGINIA'S   WOODS. 

As  toilsome  I  wander'd  Virginia's  woods, 

To   the   music   of  rustling  leaves  kick'd  by  my  feet,   (for  'twas 

autumn,) 

I  mark'd  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  the  grave  of  a  soldier ; 
Mortally  wounded  he  and  buried  on  the  retreat,  (easily  all  could 

I  understand,) 
The  halt  of  a  mid-day  hour,  when  up  !  no  time  to  lose  —  yet  this 

sign  left, 

On  a  tablet  scrawl'd  and  nail'd  on  the  tree  by  the  grave, 
Bold,  cautious,  true,  and  my  loving  comrade. 

Long,  long  I  muse,  then  on  my  way  go  wandering, 

Many  a  changeful  season  to  follow,  and  many  a  scene  of  life, 


DRUM-TAPS.  241 

Yet  at  times  through  changeful  season  and  scene,  abrupt,  alone, 
or  in  the  crowded  street, 

Comes  before  me  the  unknown  soldier's  grave,  comes  the  inscrip 
tion  rude  in  Virginia's  woods, 

Bold,  cautious,  true,  and  my  loving  comrade. 


NOT   THE   PILOT. 

NOT  the  pilot  has  charged  himself  to  bring  his  ship  into  port, 
though  beaten  back  and  many  times  baffled ; 

Not  the  pathfinder  penetrating  inland  weary  and  long, 

By  deserts  parch'd,  snows  chill 'd,  rivers  wet,  perseveres  till  he 
reaches  his  destination, 

More  than  I  have  charged  myself,  heeded  or  unheeded,  to  com 
pose  a  march  for  these  States, 

For  a  battle-call,  rousing  to  arms  if  need  be,  years,  centuries 
hence. 


YEAR  THAT  TREMBLED  AND  REEL'D  BENEATH  ME. 

YEAR  that  trembled  and  reel'd  beneath  me  ! 

Your  summer  wind  was  warm   enough,  yet   the   air  I   breathed 

froze  me, 

A  thick  gloom  fell  through  the  sunshine  and  darken'd  me, 
Must  I  change  my  triumphant  songs  ?  said  I  to  myself, 
Must  I  indeed  learn  to  chant  the  cold  dirges  of  the  baffled  ? 
And  sullen  hymns  of  defeat? 


THE   WOUND-DRESSER. 

i 

AN  old  man  bending  I  come  among  new  faces, 

Years  looking  backward  resuming  in  answer  to  children, 

Come  tell  us  old  man,  as  from  young  men  and  maidens  that  love 

me, 
(Arous'd   and  angry,  I'd  thought  to  beat  the  alarum,  and  urge 

relentless  war, 
But  soon  my  fingers  fail'd  me,  my  face  droop'd  and  I  resign'd 

myself, 
To  sit  by  the  wounded  and  soothe   them,  or  silently  watch  the 

dead ;) 
Years   hence   of  these   scenes,  of  these   furious   passions,   these 

chances, 


242  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


Of  unsurpass'd  heroes,  (was  one  side  so  brave?   the   other  was 

equally  brave ;) 

Now  be  witness  again,  paint  the  mightiest  armies  of  earth, 
Of  those  armies  so  rapid  so  wondrous  what  saw  you  to  tell  us  ? 
What  stays  with  you  latest  and  deepest  ?  of  curious  panics, 
Of  hard-fought  engagements  or  sieges  tremendous  what  deepest 

remains  ? 


0  maidens  and  young  men  I  love  and  that  love  me, 

What  you  ask  of  my  days  those  the  strangest  and  sudden  you* 

talking  recalls, 
Soldier  alert  I  arrive  after  a  long  march  cover'd  with  sweat  and 

dust, 
In  the  nick  of  time  I  come,  plunge  in  the  fight,  loudly  shout  in 

the  rush  of  successful  charge, 
Enter  the  captur'd  works  —  yet  lo,  like  a  swift-running  river  they 

fade, 
Pass  and  are  gone  they  fade  —  I  dwell  not  on  soldiers'  perils  or 

soldiers'  joys, 
(Both  I  remember  well  —  many  the  hardships,  few  the  joys,  yet  I 

was  content.) 

But  in  silence,  in  dreams'  projections, 

While  the  world  of  gain  and  appearance  and  mirth  goes  on, 

So  soon  what  is  over  forgotten,  and  waves  wash  the  imprints  off 

the  sand, 
With  hinged  knees  returning  I  enter  the  doors,  (while  for  you  up 

there, 
Whoever  you  are,  follow  without  noise  and  be  of  strong  heart.) 

Bearing  the  bandages,  water  and  sponge, 
Straight  and  swift  to  my  wounded  I  go, 
Where  they  lie  on  the  ground  after  the  battle  brought  in, 
Where  their  priceless  blood  reddens  the  grass  the  ground, 
Or  to  the  rows  of  the  hospital  tent,  or  under  the  roof  d  hospital, 
To  the  long  rows  of  cots  up  and  down  each  side  I  return, 
To  each  and  all  one  after  another  I  draw  near,  not  one  do  I  miss, 
An  attendant  follows  holding  a  tray,  he  carries  a  refuse  pail, 
Soon  to  be  fill'd  with  clotted  rags  and  blood,  emptied,  and  fill'd 
again. 

1  onward  go,  I  stop, 

With  hinged  knees  and  steady  hand  to  dress  wounds, 
I  am  firm  with  each,  the  pangs  are  sharp  yet  unavoidable, 


DRUM-TAPS.  243 

One  turns  to  me  his  appealing  eyes  —  poor  boy !    I  never  knew 

you, 
Yet  I  think  I  could  not  refuse  this  moment  to  die  for  you,  if  that 

would  save  you. 

3 

On,  on  I  go,  (open  doors  of  time  !  open  hospital  doors  !) 

The  crush'd  head  I  dress,  (poor  crazed  hand  tear  not  the  bandage 

away,) 
The  neck  of  the  cavalry-man  with  the  bullet  through  and  through 

I  examine, 
Hard  the  breathing  rattles,  quite  glazed  already  the  eye,  yet  life 

struggles  hard, 

(Come  sweet  death  !  be  persuaded  O  beautiful  death  ! 
In  mercy  come  quickly.) 

From  the  stump  of  the  arm,  the  amputated  hand, 

I  undo  the  clotted  lint,  remove  the  slough,  wash  off  the  matter 
and  blood, 

Back  on  his  pillow  the  soldier  bends  with  curv'd  neck  and  side- 
falling  head, 

His  eyes  are  closed,  his  face  is  pale,  he  dares  not  look  on  the 
bloody  stump, 

And  has  not  yet  look'd  on  it. 

I  dress  a  wound  in  the  side,  deep,  deep, 

But  a  day  or  two  more,  for  see  the  frame  all  wasted  and  sinking, 

And  the  yellow-blue  countenance  see. 

I  dress  the  perforated  shoulder,  the  foot  with  the  bullet-wound, 
Cleanse  the  one  with  a  gnawing  and  putrid  gangrene,  so  sicken 
ing,  so  offensive, 

While  the  attendant  stands  behind  aside  me  holding  the  tray  and 
pail. 

I  am  faithful,  I  do  not  give  out, 

The  fractur'd  thigh,  the  knee,  the  wound  in  the  abdomen, 
These  and  more  I  dress  with  impassive  hand,  (yet  deep  in  my 
breast  a  fire,  a  burning  flame.)- 

4 

Thus  in  silence  in  dreams*  projections, 

Returning,  resuming,  I  thread  my  way  through  the  hospitals, 

The  hurt  and  wounded  I  pacify  with  soothing  hand, 

I  sit  by  the  restless  all  the  dark  night,  some  are  so  young, 


244  LEAVES  OF  GRASS 

Some  suffer  so  much,  I  recall  the  experience  sweet  and  sad, 
(Many  a  soldier's  loving  arms  about  this  neck  have  cross'd  and 

rested, 
Many  a  soldier's  kiss  dwells  on  these  bearded  lips.) 


LONG,  TOO   LONG  AMERICA. 

LONG,  too  long  America, 

Traveling  roads  all  even  and  peaceful  you  learn'd  from  joys  and 
prosperity  only, 

But  now,  ah  now,  to  learn  from  crises  of  anguish,  advancing,  grap 
pling  with  direst  fate  and  recoiling  not, 

And  now  to  conceive  and  show  to  the  world  what  your  children 
en- masse  really  are, 

(For  who  except  myself  has  yet  conceiv'd  what  your  children 
en-masse  really  are  ?) 


GIVE   ME  THE   SPLENDID   SILENT  SUN. 


GIVE  me  the  splendid  silent  sun  with  all  his  beams  full- dazzling, 

Give  me  juicy  autumnal  fruit  ripe  and  red  from  the  orchard, 

Give  me  a  field  where  the  unmow'd  grass  grows, 

Give  me  an  arbor,  give  me  the  trellis'd  grape, 

Give  me  fresh  corn  and  wheat,  give  me  serene-moving  animals 

teaching  content, 
Give  me  nights  perfectly  quiet  as  on  high  plateaus  west  of  the 

Mississippi,  and  I  looking  up  at  the  stars, 
Give  me  odorous  at  sunrise  a  garden  of  beautiful  flowers  where  I 

can  walk  undisturb'd, 
Give  me  for  marriage  a  sweet-breath'd  woman  of  whom  I  should 

never  tire, 
Give  me  a  perfect  child,  give  me  away  aside  from  the  noise  of  the 

world  a  rural  domestic  life, 
Give  me  to  warble  spontaneous  songs  recluse  by  myself,  for  my 

own  ears  only, 
Give  me  solitude,  give  me  Nature,  give  me  again  O  Nature  youi 

primal  sanities ! 

These  demanding  to  have  them,  (tired  with  ceaseless  excitement, 

and  rack'd  by  the  war-strife,) 

These  to  procure  incessantly  asking,  rising  in  cries  from  my 
While  yet  incessantly  asking  still  I  adhere  to  my  city, 


DRUM-TAPS.  245 

Day  upon  day  and  year  upon  year  O  city,  walking  your  streets, 
Where  you  hold  me  enchain 'd  a  certain  time  refusing  to  give  me 

up, 
Yet  giving  to  make  me  glutted,  enrich'd  of  soul,  you  give  me 

forever  faces ; 

(O  I  see  what  I  sought  to  escape,  confronting,  reversing  my  cries, 
I  see  my  own  soul  trampling  down  what  it  ask'd  for.) 


Keep  your  splendid  silent  sun, 

Keep    your    woods    O    Nature,    and  the   quiet  places  by  the 

woods, 
Keep  your  fields  of  clover  and  timothy,  and  your  corn-fields  and 

orchards, 
Keep  the  blossoming  buckwheat  fields  where  the  Ninth-month 

bees  hum ; 
Give  me  faces  and  streets  —  give  me  these  phantoms  incessant 

and  endless  along  the  trottoirs  ! 
Give  me  interminable  eyes  —  give  me  women  —  give  me  comrades 

and  lovers  by  the  thousand  ! 
Let  me  see  new  ones  every  day  —  let  me  hold  new  ones  by  the 

hand  every  day ! 

Give  me  such  shows  —  give  me  the  streets  of  Manhattan  ! 
Give  me  Broadway,  with  the  soldiers  marching  —  give  me  the 

sound  of  the  trumpets  and  drums  ! 
(The  soldiers  in  companies  or  regiments  —  some  starting  away, 

flush'd  and  reckless, 
Some,  their  time  up,  returning  with  thinn'd  ranks,  young,  yet  very 

old,  worn,  marching,  noticing  nothing ;) 
Give    me    the    shores    and    wharves    heavy-fringed   with   black 

ships  ! 

O  such  for  me  !  O  an  intense  life,  full  to  repletion  and  varied  ! 
The  life  of  the  theatre,  bar-room,  huge  hotel,  for  me  ! 
The  saloon  of  the  steamer !  the  crowded  excursion  for  me  !  the 

torchlight  procession  ! 
The  dense  brigade  bound  for  the  war,  with  high  piled  military 

wagons  following ; 

People,  endless,  streaming,  with  strong  voices,  passions,  pageants, 
Manhattan  streets  with  their  powerful  throbs,  with  beating  drums 

as  now, 
The  endless  and  noisy  chorus,  the  rustle  and  clank  of  muskets, 

(even  the  sight  of  the  wounded,) 

Manhattan  crowds,  with  their  turbulent  musical  chorus  ! 
Manhattan  faces  and  eyes  forever  for  me. 


246  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


DIRGE   FOR  TWO   VETERANS. 

THE  last  sunbeam 

Lightly  falls  from  the  finish'd  Sabbath, 
On  the  pavement  here,  and  there  beyond  it  is  looking, 

Down  a  new-made  double  grave. 

Lo,  the  moon  ascending, 
Up  from  the  east  the  silvery  round  moon, 
Beautiful  over  the  house-tops,  ghastly,  phantom  moon, 

Immense  and  silent  moon. 

I  see  a  sad  procession, 

And  I  hear  the  sound  of  coming  full-key'd  bugles, 
All  the  channels  of  the  city  streets  they're  flooding, 

As  with  voices  and  with  tears. 

I  hear  the  great  drums  pounding, 
And  the  small  drums  steady  whirring, 
And  every  blow  of  the  great  convulsive  drums, 

Strikes  me  through  and  through. 

For  the  son  is  brought  with  the  father, 
(In  the  foremost  ranks  of  the  fierce  assault  they  fell, 
Two  veterans  son  and  father  dropt  together, 

And  the  double  grave  awaits  them.) 

Now  nearer  blow  the  bugles, 
And  the  drums  strike  more  convulsive, 
And  the  daylight  o'er  the  pavement  quite  has  faded, 

And  the  strong  dead-march  enwraps  me. 

In  the  eastern  sky  up-buoying, 
The  sorrowful  vast  phantom  moves  illumin'd, 
('Tis  some  mother's  large  transparent  face, 

In  heaven  brighter  growing.) 

O  strong  dead- march  you  please  me  ! 
O  moon  immense  with  your  silvery  face  you  soothe  me ! 
O  my  soldiers  twain  !  O  my  veterans  passing  to  burial ! 

What  I  have  I  also  give  you. 

The  moon  gives  you  light, 
And  the  bugles  and  the  drums  give  you  music, 
And  my  heart,  O  my  soldiers,  my  veterans, 

My  heart  gives  you  love. 


DRUM-TAPS.  247 


OVER  THE  CARNAGE  ROSE  PROPHETIC  A  VOICE. 

OVER  the  carnage  rose  prophetic  a  voice, 

Be  not  dishearten'd,  affection  shall  solve  the  problems  of  freedom 

yet, 

Those  who  love  each  other  shall  become  invincible, 
They  shall  yet  make  Columbia  victorious. 

Sons  of  the  Mother  of  All,  you  shall  yet  be  victorious, 

You  shall  yet  laugh  to  scorn  the  attacks  of  all  the  remainder  of 

the  earth. 

No  danger  shall  balk  Columbia's  lovers, 

If  need  be  a  thousand  shall  sternly  immolate  themselves  for  one. 

One  from  Massachusetts  shall  be  a  Missourian's  comrade, 

From  Maine  and  from  hot  Carolina,  and  another  an  Oregonese, 

shall  be  friends  triune, 
More  precious  to  each  other  than  all  the  riches  of  the  earth. 

To  Michigan,  Florida  perfumes  shall  tenderly  come, 

Not  the  perfumes  of  flowers,  but  sweeter,  and  wafted  beyond  death. 

It  shall  be  customary  in  the  houses  and  streets  to  see  manly 

affection, 

The  most  dauntless  and  rude  shall  touch  face  to  face  lightly, 
The  dependence  of  Liberty  shall  be  lovers, 
The  continuance  of  Equality  shall  be  comrades. 

These  shall  tie  you  and  band  you  stronger  than  hoops  of  iron, 
I,  ecstatic,  O  partners  !  O  lands  !  with  the  love  of  lovers  tie  you. 

(Were  you  looking  to  be  held  together  by  lawyers  ? 

Or  by  an  agreement  on  a  paper  ?  or  by  arms  ? 

Nay,  nor  the  world,  nor  any  living  thing,  will  so  cohere.) 


I   SAW   OLD   GENERAL  AT  BAY. 

I  SAW  old  General  at  bay, 

(Old  as  he  was,  his  gray  eyes  yet  shone  out  in  battle  like  stars,) 
His  small  force  was  now  completely  hemm'd  in,  in  his  works, 
He  call'd  for  volunteers  to  run  the  enemy's  lines,  a   desperate 

emergency, 
I  saw  a  hundred  and  more  step  forth  from  the  ranks,  but  two  or 

three  were  selected 


248  LEAI-ES  OF  GRASS. 

I  saw  them  receive  their  orders  aside,  they  listen'd  with  care,  the 

adjutant  was  very  grave, 
I  saw  them  depart  with  cheerfulness,  freely  risking  their  lives. 


THE  ARTILLERYMAN'S  VISION. 

WHILE  my  wife  at  my  side  lies  slumbering,  and  the  wars  are  over 

long, 

And  my  head  on  the  pillow  rests  at  home,  and  the  vacant  mid 
night  passes, 
And  through  the  stillness,  through  the  dark,  I  hear,  just  hear,  the 

breath  of  my  infant, 

There  in  the  room  as  I  wake  from  sleep  this  vision  presses  upon  me  ; 
The  engagement  opens  there  and  then  in  fantasy  unreal, 
The  skirmishers  begin,  they  crawl  cautiously  ahead,  I  hear  the 

irregular  snap  !  snap  ! 
I  hear  the  sounds  of  the  different  missiles,  the  short  t-h-t!  t-h-t! 

of  the  rifle-balls, 
I  see  the  shells  exploding  leaving  small  white  clouds,  I  hear  the 

great  shells  shrieking  as  they  pass, 
The  grape  like  the  hum  and  whirr  of  wind  through  the  trees, 

(tumultuous  now  the  contest  rages,) 

All  the  scenes  at  the  batteries  rise  in  detail  before  me  again, 
The  crashing  and  smoking,  the  pride  of  the  men  in  their  pieces, 
The  chief-gunner  ranges  and  sights  his  piece  and  selects  a  fuse  of 

the  right  time, 
After  firing  I  see  him  lean  aside  and  look  eagerly  off  to  note  the 

effect ; 
Elsewhere  I  hear  the  cry  of  a  regiment  charging,   (the  young 

colonel  leads  himself  this  time  with  brandish'd  sword,) 
I  see  the  gaps  cut  by  the  enemy's  volleys,  (quickly  fill'd  up,  no 

delay,) 
I  breathe  the  suffocating  smoke,  then  the  flat  clouds  hover  low 

concealing  all ; 

Now  a  strange  lull  for  a  few  seconds,  not  a  shot  fired  on  either  side, 
Then  resumed  the  chaos  louder  than  ever,  with  eager  calls  and 

orders  of  officers, 
While  from  some  distant  part  of  the  field  the  wind  wafts  to  my 

ears  a  shout  of  applause,  (some  special  success,) 
And  ever  the  sound  of  the  cannon  far  or  near,  (rousing  even  in 

dreams  a  devilish  exultation  and  all  the  old  mad  joy  in  the 

depths  of  my  soul,) 
And  ever  the   hastening  of  infantry  shifting  positions,  batterie^, 

cavalry,  moving  hither  and  thither, 


DRUM-TAPS,  249 

(The  falling,  dying,  I  heed  not,  the  wounded  dripping  and  red  I 

heed  not,  some  to  the  rear  are  hobbling,) 
Grime,  heat,  rush,  aide-de-camps  galloping  by  or  on  a  full  run, 
With  the  patter  of  small  arms,  the  warning  s-s-t  of  the  rifles,  (these 

in  my  vision  I  hear  or  see,) 
And  bombs  bursting  in  air,  and  at  night  the  vari-color'd  rockets. 


ETHIOPIA   SALUTING   THE   COLORS. 

WHO  are  you  dusky  woman,  so  ancient  hardly  human, 

With  your  woolly-white  and  turban'd  head,  and  bare  bony  feet? 

Why  rising  by  the  roadside  here,  do  you  the  colors  greet  ? 

('Tis  while  our  army  lines  Carolina's  sands  and  pines, 
Forth  from  thy  hovel  door  thou  Ethiopia  com'st  to  me, 
As  under  doughty  Sherman  I  march  toward  the  sea.) 

Me  master  years  a  hundred  since  from  my  parents  sundered, 
A  little  child,  they  caught  me  as  the  savage  beast  is  caught. 
Then  hither  me  across  the  sea  the  cruel  slaver  brought. 

No  further  does  she  say,  but  lingering  all  the  day, 

Her  high-borne  turban'd  head  she  wags,  and  rolls  her  darkling 

eye, 
And  courtesies  to  the  regiments,  the  guidons  moving  by. 

What  is  it  fateful  woman,  so  blear,  hardly  human  ? 

Why  wag  your  head  with  turban  bound,  yellow,  red  and  green  ? 

Are  the  things  so  strange  and  marvelous  you  see  or  have  seen  ? 


NOT  YOUTH    PERTAINS   TO   ME. 

Nor  youth  pertains  to  me, 

Nor  delicatesse,  I  cannot  beguile  the  time  with  talk, 

Awkward  in  the  parlor,  neither  a  dancer  nor  elegant, 

In  the  learn'd  coterie  sitting  constraint   and   still,  for  learning 

inures  not  to  me, 
Beauty,  knowledge,  inure  not  to  me  —  yet  there  are  two  or  three 

things  inure  to  me, 

I  have  nourish'd  the  wounded  and  sooth'd  many  a  dying  soldier, 
And  at  intervals  waiting  or  in  the  midst  of  camp, 
Composed  these  songs. 


250  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


RACE   OF   VETERANS. 

RACE  of  veterans  —  race  of  victors  ! 

Race  of  the  soil,  ready  for  conflict  —  race  of  the  conquering  march  1 

(No  more  credulity's  race,  abiding-temper'd  race,) 

Race  henceforth  owning  no  law  but  the  law  of  itself, 

Race  of  passion  and  the  storm. 


WORLD   TAKE   GOOD   NOTICE. 

WORLD  take  good  notice,  silver  stars  fading, 
Milky  hue  ript,  weft  of  white  detaching, 
Coals  thirty-eight,  baleful  and  burning, 
Scarlet,  significant,  hands  off  warning, 
Now  and  henceforth  flaunt  from  these  shores. 


O   TAN-FACED    PRAIRIE-BOY. 

O  TAN-FACED  prairie-boy, 

Before  you  came  to  camp  came  many  a  welcome  gift, 

Praises  and  presents  came  and  nourishing  food,  till  at  last  among 

the  recruits, 
You  came,  taciturn,  with  nothing  to  give  —  we  but  look'd  on  each 

other, 
When  lo  !  more  than  all  the  gifts  of  the  world  you  gave  me. 


LOOK   DOWN    FAIR  MOON. 

LOOK  down  fair  moon  and  bathe  this  scene, 

Pour  softly  down  night's  nimbus  floods  on  faces  ghastly,  swollen, 

purple, 

On  the  dead  on  their  backs  with  arms  toss'd  wide, 
Pour  down  your  unstinted  nimbus  sacred  moon. 


RECONCILIATION. 

WORD  over  all,  beautiful  as  the  sky, 

Beautiful  that  war  and  all  its  deeds  of  carnage  must  in  time  be 

utterly  lost, 
That  the  hands  of  the  sisters  Death  and  Night  incessantly  softly 

wash  again,  and  ever  again,  this  soil'd  world ; 


^DRUM-TAPS.  251 

For  my  enemy  is  dead,  a  man  divine  as  myself  is  dead, 

I  look  where  he  lies  white-faced  and  still  in  the  coffin  —  I  draw 

near, 
Bend  down  and  touch  lightly  with  my  lips  the  white  face  in  the 

coffin. 


HOW  SOLEMN   AS   ONE   BY  ONE. 

(Washington  City,  1865.) 

How  solemn  as  one  by  one, 

As  the  ranks  returning  worn  and  sweaty,  as  the  men  file  by  where 

I  stand, 
As  the  faces  the  masks  appear,  as  I  glance  at  the  faces  studying  the 

masks, 
(As  I  glance  upward  out  of  this  page  studying  you,  dear  friend, 

whoever  you  are,) 
How  solemn  the  thought  of  my  whispering  soul  to  each  in  the 

ranks,  and  to  you, 

I  see  behind  each  mask  that  wonder  a  kindred  soul, 
O  the  bullet  could  never  kill  what  you  really  are,  dear  friend, 
Nor  the  bayonet  stab  what  you  really  are  ; 
The  soul !  yourself  I  see,  great  as  any,  good  as  the  best, 
Waiting  secure  and  content,  which  the  bullet  could  never  kill, 
Nor  the  bayonet  stab  O  friend. 


AS  I  LAY  WITH  MY  HEAD  IN  YOUR  LAP  CAMERADO. 

As  I  lay  with  my  head  in  your  lap  camerado, 

The  confession  I  made  I  resume,  what  I  said  to  you  and  the  open 

air  I  resume, 

I  know  I  am  restless  and  make  others  so, 
I  know  my  words  are  weapons  full  of  danger,  full  of  death, 
For  I  confront  peace,  security,  and  all  the  settled  laws,  to  unsettle 

them, 
I  am  more  resolute  because  all  have  denied  me  than  I  could  ever 

have  been  had  all  accepted  me, 
I  heed  not  and  have  never  heeded  either  experience,  cautions, 

majorities,  nor  ridicule, 

And  the  threat  of  what  is  call'd  hell  is  little  or  nothing  to  me, 
And  the  lure  of  what  is  call'd  heaven  is  little  or  nothing  to  me ; 
Dear  camerado  !  I  confess  I  have  urged  you  onward  with  me,  and 

still  urge  you,  without  the  least  idea  what  is  our  destination, 
Or  whether  we  shall  be  victorious,  or  utterly  quell'd  and  defeated. 
17 


2$2  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

DELICATE   CLUSTER. 

DELICATE  cluster  !  flag  of  teeming  life  ! 

Covering  all  my  lands  —  all  my  seashores  lining  ! 

Flag  of  death  !   (how  I  watch'd  you  through  the  smoke  of  battle 

pressing ! 

How  I  heard  you  flap  and  rustle,  cloth  defiant !) 
Flag  cerulean  —  sunny  flag,  with  the  orbs  of  night  dappled  ! 
Ah  my  silvery  beauty  —  ah  my  woolly  white  and  crimson  1 
Ah  to  sing  the  song  of  you,  my  matron  mighty ! 
My  sacred  one,  my  mother. 


TO  A   CERTAIN   CIVILIAN. 

DID  you  ask  dulcet  rhymes  from  me  ? 

Did  you  seek  the  civilian's  peaceful  and  languishing  rhymes  ? 

Did  you  find  what  I  sang  erewhile  so  hard  to  follow  ? 

Why  I  was  not  singing  erewhile  for  you  to  follow,  to  understand  — 

nor  am  I  now ; 

(I  have  been  born  of  the  same  as  the  war  was  born, 
The  drum-corps'  rattle  is  ever  to  me  sweet  music,  I  love  well  the 

martial  dirge, 

With  slow  wail  and  convulsive  throb  leading  the  officer's  funeral ;) 
What  to  such  as  you  anyhow  such  a  poet  as  I  ?  therefore  leave  my 

works, 
And  go  lull  yourself  with  what  you  can  understand,  and  with  pianc 

tunes, 
For  I  lull  nobody,  and  you  will  never  understand  me. 


LO,  VICTRESS   ON   THE   PEAKS. 

Lo,  Victress  on  the  peaks, 

Where  thou  with  mighty  brow  regarding  the  world, 

(The  world  O  Libertad,  that  vainly  conspired  against  thee,) 

Out  of  its  countless  beleaguering  toils,  after  thwarting  them  all, 

Dominant,  with  the  dazzling  sun  around  thee, 

Flauntest  now  unharm'd  in  immortal  soundness  and  bloom  —  lo,  ID 

these  hours  supreme, 
No  poem  proud,  I  chanting  bring  to  thee,  nor  mastery's  rapturous 

verse, 
But  a  cluster  containing  night's   darkness   and  blood-dripping 

wounds, 
And  psalms  of  the  dead. 


DRUM-TAPS.  253 


SPIRIT   WHOSE   WORK   IS    DONE. 

(  Washington  City,  1865.) 

SPIRIT  whose  work  is  done  —  spirit  of  dreadful  hours  ! 
Ere  departing  fade  from  my  eyes  your  forests  of  bayonets ; 
Spirit  of  gloomiest  fears  and  doubts,  (yet  onward  ever  unfaltering 

pressing,) 
Spirit  of  many  a  solemn  day  and  many  a  savage  scene  —  electric 

spirit, 

That  with  muttering  voice  through  the  war  now  closed,  like  a  tire 
less  phantom  flitted, 
Rousing  the  land  with  breath  of  flame,  while  you  beat  and  beat 

the  drum, 
Now  as  the  sound  of  the  drum,  hollow  and  harsh  to  the  last, 

reverberates  round  me, 

As  your  ranks,  your  immortal  ranks,  return,  return  from  the  battles, 
As  the  muskets  of  the  young  men  yet  lean  over  their  shoulders, 
As  I  look  on  the  bayonets  bristling  over  their  shoulders, 
As  those  slanted  bayonets,  whole  forests  of  them  appearing  in  the 

distance,  approach  and  pass  on,  returning  homeward, 
Moving  with  steady  motion,  swaying  to  and  fro  to  the  right  and 

left, 

Evenly  lightly  rising  and  falling  while  the  steps  keep  time ; 
Spirit  of  hours  I  knew,  all  hectic  red  one  day,  but  pale  as  death 

next  day, 

Touch  my  mouth  ere  you  depart,  press  my  lips  close, 
Leave  me  your  pulses  of  rage  —  bequeath  them  to  me  —  fill  me 

with  currents  convulsive, 

Let  them  scorch  and  blister  out  of  my  chants  when  you  are  gone, 
Let  them  identify  you  to  the  future  in  these  songs. 

ADIEU   TO   A  SOLDIER. 

ADIEU  O  soldier, 

You  of  the  rude  campaigning,  (which  we  shared,) 

The  rapid  march,  the  life  of  the  camp, 

The  hot  contention  of  opposing  fronts,  the  long  manoeuvre, 

Red  battles  with  their  slaughter,  the  stimulus,  the  strong  terrific 

game, 
Spell  of  all  brave  and  manly  hearts,  the  trains  of  time  through  you 

and  like  of  you  all  fill'd, 
With  war  and  war's  expression. 

Adieu  dear  comrade, 

Your  mission  is  fulfill'd  —  but  I,  more  warlike, 


254  LEAYES  OF  GRASS. 


Myself  and  this  contentious  soul  of  mine, 

Still  on  our  own  campaigning  bound, 

Through  untried  roads  with  ambushes  opponents  lined, 

Through  many  a  sharp  defeat  and  many  a  crisis,  often  baffled, 

Here  marching,  ever  marching  on,  a  war  fight  out  —  aye  here, 

To  fiercer,  weightier  battles  give  expression. 


TURN   O   LIBERTAD. 

TURN  O  Libertad,  for  the  war  is  over, 

From  it  and  all  henceforth  expanding,  doubting  no  more,  resolute, 

sweeping  the  world, 

Turn  from  lands  retrospective  recording  proofs  of  the  past, 
From  the  singers  that  sing  the  trailing  glories  of  the  past, 
From  the  chants  of  the  feudal  world,  the  triumphs  of  kings,  slavery, 

caste, 
Turn  to  the  world,  the  triumphs  reserved  and  to  come  —  give  up 

that  backward  world, 

Leave  to  the  singers  of  hitherto,  give  them  the  trailing  past, 
But  what  remains  remains  for  singers  for  you  —  wars  to  come  are 

for  you, 
(Lo,  how  the  wars  of  the  past  have  duly  inured  to  you,  and  the 

wars  of  the  present  also  inure  ;) 
Then  turn,  and  be  not  alarm'd  O  Libertad  —  turn  your  undying 

face, 

To  where  the  future,  greater  than  all  the  past, 
Is  swiftly,  surely  preparing  for  you. 


TO  THE  LEAVEN'D  SOIL  THEY  TROD. 

To  the  leaven'd  soil  they  trod  calling  I  sing  for  the  last, 

(Forth  from  my  tent  emerging  for  good,  loosing,  untying  the  tent- 

ropes,) 
In  the  freshness  the  forenoon  air,  in  the  far-stretching  circuits  and 

vistas  again  to  peace  restored, 
To  the  fiery  fields  emanative  and  the  endless  vistas  beyond,  to  the 

South  and  the  North, 
To  the  leaven'd  soil  of  the  general  Western  world  to  attest  my 

songs, 

To  the  Alleghanian  hills  and  the  tireless  Mississippi, 
To  the  rocks  I  calling  sing,  and  all  the  trees  in  the  woods, 
To  the  plains  of  the  poems  of  heroes,  to  the  prairies  spreading 

wide, 


MEMORIES  OF  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN.  255 

To  the  far-off  sea  and  the  unseen  winds,  and  the  sane  impalpable 

air; 

And  responding  they  answer  all,  (but  not  in  words,) 
The  average  earth,  the  witness  of  war  and  peace,  acknowledges 

mutely, 

The  prairie  draws  me  close,  as  the  father  to  bosom  broad  the  son, 
The  Northern  ice  and  rain  that  began  me  nourish  me  to  the  end, 
But  the  hot  sun  of  the  South  is  to  fully  ripen  my  songs. 


MEMORIES    OF    PRESIDENT 
LINCOLN. 


WHEN   LILACS   LAST  IN   THE   DOORYARD   BLOOM'D. 

i 

WHEN  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloom'd, 
And  the  great  star  early  droop'd  in  the  western  sky  in 
the  night, 
I  mourn'd,  and  yet  shall  mourn  with  ever-returning  spring. 

Ever-returning  spring,  trinity  sure  to  me  you  bring, 
Lilac  blooming  perennial  and  drooping  star  in  the  west, 
And  thought  of  him  I  love. 

2 

O  powerful  western  fallen  star  ! 

O  shades  of  night  —  O  moody,  tearful  night ! 

O  great  star  disappear'd  —  O  the  black  murk  that  hides  the  star  ! 

O  cruel  hands  that  hold  me  powerless  —  O  helpless  soul  of  me  ! 

O  harsh  surrounding  cloud  that  will  not  free  my  soul. 

3 

In  the  dooryard  fronting  an  old  farm-house  near  the  white-wash'd 

palings, 
Stands  the  lilac-bush  tall-growing  with  heart-shaped  leaves  of  rich 

green, 
With  many  a  pointed  blossom  rising  delicate,  with  the  perfume 

strong  I  love, 


256  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


With  every  leaf  a  miracle  —  and  from  this  bush  in  the  dooryard, 
With  delicate-color'd  blossoms  and  heart-shaped  leaves  of  rich 

green, 
A  sprig  with  its  flower  I  break. 


In  the  swamp  in  secluded  recesses, 

A  shy  and  hidden  bird  is  warbling  a  song. 

Solitary  the  thrush, 

The  hermit  withdrawn  to  himself,  avoiding  the  settlements, 

Sings  by  himself  a  song. 

Song  of  the  bleeding  throat, 

Death's  outlet  song  of  life,  (for  well  dear  brother  I  know, 

li  thou  wast  not  granted  to  sing  thou  would'st  surely  die.) 

5 

Over  the  breast  of  the  spring,  the  land,  amid  cities, 

Amid  lanes  and  through  old  woods,  where  lately  the  violets  peep'd 

from  the  ground,  spotting  the  gray  debris, 
Amid  the  grass  in  the  fields  each  side  of  the  lanes,  passing  the 

endless  grass, 
Passing  the  yellow- spear 'd  wheat,  every  grain  from  its  shroud  in 

the .  dark-brown  fields  uprisen, 

Passing  the  apple-tree  blows  of  white  and  pink  in  the  orchards, 
Carrying  a  corpse  to  where  it  shall  rest  in  the  grave, 
Night  and  day  journeys  a  coffin. 


Coffin  that  passes  through  lanes  and  streets, 
Through  day  and  night  with  the  great  cloud  darkening  the  land, 
With  the  pomp  of  the  inloop'd  flags  with  the  cities  draped  in  black, 
With  the  show  of  the  States  themselves  as  of  crape-veil'd  women 

standing, 

With  processions  long  and  winding  and  the  flambeaus  of  the  night, 
With  the  countless  torches  lit,  with  the  silent  sea  of  faces  and  the 

unbared  heads, 

With  the  waiting  depot,  the  arriving  coffin,  and  the  sombre  faces, 
With  dirges  through  the  night,  with  the  thousand  voices  rising 

strong  and  solemn, 

With  all  the  mournful  voices  of  the  dirges  pour'd  around  the  coffin, 
The  dim-lit  churches  and  the  shuddering  organs  —  where  amid 

these  you  journey, 


MEMORIES  OF  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN.  257 

With  the  tolling  tolling  bells'  perpetual  clang, 
Here,  coffin  that  slowly  passes, 
I  give  you  my  sprig  of  lilac. 


(Nor  for  you,  for  one  alone, 

Blossoms  and  branches  green  to  coffins  all  I  bring, 
For  fresh  as  the  morning,  thus  would  I  chant  a  song  for  you  O 
sane  and  sacred  death. 

All  over  bouquets  of  roses, 

O  death,  I  cover  you  over  with  roses  and  early  lilies, 

But  mostly  and  now  the  lilac  that  blooms  the  first, 

Copious  I  break,  I  break  the  sprigs  from  the  bushes, 

With  loaded  arms  I  come,  pouring  for  you, 

For  you  and  the  coffins  all  of  you  O  death.) 


O  western  orb  sailing  the  heaven, 

Now  I  know  what  you  must  have  meant  as  a  month  since  I 

walk'd, 

As  I  walk'd  in  silence  the  transparent  shadowy  night, 
As  I  saw  you  had  something  to  tell  as  you  bent  to  me  night  after 

night, 
As  you  droop'd  from  the  sky  low  down  as  if  to  my  side,  (while 

the  other  stars  all  look'd  on,) 
As  we  wander'd  together  the  solemn  night,  (for  something  I  know 

not  what  kept  me  from  sleep,) 
As  the  night  advanced,  and  I  saw  on  the  rim  of  the  west  how  full 

you  were  of  woe, 

As  I  stood  on  the  rising  ground  in  the  breeze  in  the  cool  trans 
parent  night, 
As  I  watch'd  where  you  pass'd  and  was  lost  in  the  netherward 

black  of  the  night, 

As  my  soul  in  its  trouble  dissatisfied  sank,  as  where  you  sad  orb, 
Concluded,  dropt  in  the  night,  and  was  gone. 


Sing  on  there  in  the  swamp, 

0  singer  bashful  and  tender,  I  hear  your  notes,  I  hear  your  call, 

1  hear,  I  come  presently,  I  understand  you, 

But  a  moment  I  linger,  for  the  lustrous  star  has  detain'd  me, 
The  star  my  departing  comrade  holds  and  detains  me. 


258  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


10 

O  how  shall  I  warble  myself  for  the  dead  one  there  I  loved  ? 
And  how  shall  I  deck  my  song  for  the  large  sweet  soul  that  has 

gone? 
And  what  shall  my  perfume  be  for  the  grave  of  him  I  love  ? 

Sea-winds  blown  from  east  and  west, 

Blown  from  the  Eastern  sea  and  blown  from  the  Western  sea,  till 

there  on  the  prairies  meeting, 
These  and  with  these  and  the  breath  of  my  chant, 
I'll  perfume  the  grave  of  him  I  love. 

ii 

O  what  shall  I  hang  on  the  chamber  walls  ? 

And  what  shall  the  pictures  be  that  I  hang  on  the  walls, 

To  adorn  the  burial-house  of  him  I  love  ? 

Pictures  of  growing  spring  and  farms  and  homes, 

With  the  Fourth-month  eve  at  sundown,  and  the  gray  smoke  lucid 

and  bright, 
With  floods  of  the  yellow  gold  of  the  gorgeous,  indolent,  sinking 

sun,  burning,  expanding  the  air, 
With  the  fresh  sweet  herbage  under  foot,  and  the  pale  green  leaves 

of  the  trees  prolific, 
In  the  distance  the  flowing  glaze,  the  breast  of  the  river,  with  a 

wind-dapple  here  and  there, 
With  ranging  hills  on  the  banks,  with  many  a  line  against  the  sky, 

and  shadows, 

A.nd  the  city  at  hand  with  dwellings  so  dense,  and  stacks  of  chim 
neys, 
And  all  the  scenes  of  life  and  the  workshops,  and  the  workmen 

homeward  returning. 

12 

Lo,  body  and  soul  —  this  land, 

My  own  Manhattan  with  spires,  and  the  sparkling  and  hurrying 

tides,  and  the  ships, 
The  varied  and  ample  land,  the  South  and  the  North  in  the  light, 

Ohio's  shores  and  flashing  Missouri, 
And  ever  the  far-spreading  prairies  cover'd  with  grass  and  corn, 

Lo,  the  most  excellent  sun  so  calm  and  haughty, 
The  violet  and  purple  morn  with  just-felt  breezes, 
The  gentle  soft-born  measureless  light, 


MEMORIES  OF  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN.  259 

The  miracle  spreading  bathing  all,  the  fulfill'd  noon, 

The  coming  eve  delicious,  the  welcome  night  and  the  stars, 

Over  my  cities  shining  all,  enveloping  man  and  land. 

13 

Sing  on,  sing  on  you  gray-brown  bird, 

Sing  from  the  swamps,  the  recesses,  pour  your  chant  from  the 

bushes, 
Limitless  out  of  the  dusk,  out  of  the  cedars  and  pines. 

/  Sing  on  dearest  brother,  warble  your  reedy  song, 
j  Loud  human  song,  with  voice  of  uttermost  woe. 

O  liquid  and  free  and  tender  ! 

O  wild  and  loose  to  my  soul  —  O  wondrous  singer ! 

You  only  I  hear  —  yet  the  star  holds  me,  (but  will  soon  depart,) 

Yet  the  lilac  with  mastering  odor  holds  me. 

14 

Now  while  I  sat  in  the  day  and  look'd  forth, 

In  the  close  of  the  day  with  its  light  and  the  fields  of  spring,  and 

the  farmers  preparing  their  crops, 
In  the  large  unconscious  scenery  of  my  land  with  its  lakes  and 

forests, 
In  the  heavenly  aerial  beauty,  (after  the  perturb'd  winds  and  the 

storms,) 
Under  the  arching  heavens  of  the  afternoon  swift  passing,  and  the 

voices  of  children  and  women, 
The    many-moving   sea-tides,    and    I    saw   the   ships   how   they 

sail'd, 
And  the  summer  approaching  with  richness,  and  the  fields  all  busy 

with  labor, 
And  the  infinite  separate  houses,  how  they  all  went  on,  each  with 

its  meals  and  minutia  of  daily  usages, 
And  the  streets  how  their  throbbings  throbb'd,  and  the  cities   pent 

—  lo,  then  and  there, 
Falling  upon  them  all  and  among  them  all,  enveloping  me  with  the 

rest, 

Appear'd  the  cloud,  appear'd  the  long  black  trail, 
And  I  knew  death,  its  thought,  and  the  sacred  knowledge  of 

death. 

Then  with  the  knowledge  of  death  as  walking  one  side  of  me, 
And  the  thought  of  death  close-walking  the  other  side  of  me, 


260  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

And  I  in  the  middle  as  with  companions,  and  as  holding  the 

hands  of  companions, 

I  fled  forth  to  the  hiding  receiving  night  that  talks  not, 
Down  to  the  shores  of  the  water,  the  path  by  the  swamp  in  the 

dimness, 
To  the  solemn  shadowy  cedars  and  ghostly  pines  so  still. 

And  the  singer  so  shy  to  the  rest  receiv'd  me, 

The  gray-brown  bird  I  know  receiv'd  us  comrades  three, 

And  he  sang  the  carol  of  death,  and  a  verse  for  him  I  love. 

From  deep  secluded  recesses, 

From  the  fragrant  cedars  and  the  ghostly  pines  so  still, 

Came  the  carol  of  the  bird. 

And  the  charm  of  the  carol  rapt  me, 

As  I  held  as  if  by  their  hands  my  comrades  in  the  night, 

And  the  voice  of  my  spirit  tallied  the  song  of  the  bird. 

Come  lovely  and  soothing  death, 

Undulate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriving,  arrivingf 

In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each. 

Sooner  or  later  delicate  death. 

Praised  be  the  fathomless  universe, 

For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and  knowledge  curious, 
And  for  love,  sweet  love  —  but  praise  !  praise  !  praise  / 
For  the  sure-enwinding  arms  of  cool-enfolding  death. 

Dark  mother  always  gliding  near  with  soft  feet, 
Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  of  fullest  welcome  ? 
Then  I  chant  it  for  thee,  I  glorify  thee  above  all, 
I  bring  thee  a  song  that  when  thou  must  indeed  come,  come  unfal 
teringly. 

Approach  strong  deliveress, 

When  it  is  so,  when  thou  hast  taken  them  I  joyously  sing  the  dead, 

Lost  in  the  loving  floating  ocean  of  thee, 

Laved  in  the  flood  of  thy  bliss  O  death. 

From  me  to  thee  glad  serenades, 

Dances  for  thee  I  propose  saluting  thee,  adornments  and  feast- 

ings  for  thee, 
And  the  sights  of  the  open  landscape  and  the  high-spread  sky  are 

fitting, 
And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and  thoughtful  night. 


MEMORIES  OF  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN.  261 


The  night  in  silence  under  many  a  star, 

The  ocean  shore  and  tlie  husky  whispering  wave  whose  voice  I 

know, 

And  the  soul  turning  to  thee  O  vast  and  well-veil' d  death, 
And  the  body  gratefully  nestling  close  to  thee. 

Over  the  tree- tops  I  float  thee  a  song, 

Over  the  rising  and  sinking  waves,  over  the  myriad  fields  and  the 

prairies  wide, 

Over  the  dense-pack' d  cities  all  and  the  teeming  wharves  and  ways, 
I  float  this  carol  with  joy,  with  joy  to  thee  O  death. 

15 

To  the  tally  of  my  soul, 

Loud  and  strong  kept  up  the  gray-brown  bird, 

With  pure  deliberate  notes  spreading  filling  the  night. 

Loud  in  the  pines  and  cedars  dim, 

Clear  in  the  freshness  moist  and  the  swamp-perfume, 

And  I  with  my  comrades  there  in  the  night. 

While  my  sight  that  was  bound  in  my  eyes  unclosed, 
As  to  long  panoramas  of  visions. 

And  I  saw  askant  the  armies, 

I  saw  as  in  noiseless  dreams  hundreds  of  battle-flags, 

Borne  through  the  smoke  of  the  battles  and  pierc'd  with  missiles 

I  saw  them, 
And   carried   hither  and  yon   through  the  smoke,  and  torn  and 

bloody, 

And  at  last  but  a  few  shreds  left  on  the  staffs,  (and  all  in  silence,) 
And  the  staffs  all  splinter'd  and  broken. 

I  saw  battle-corpses,  myriads  of  them, 

And  the  white  skeletons  of  young  men,  I  saw  them, 

I  saw  the  debris  and  debris  of  all  the  slain  soldiers  of  the  war, 

But  I  saw  they  were  not  as  was  thought, 

They  themselves  were  fully  at  rest,  they  suffer'd  not, 

The  living  remain'd  and  suffer'd,  the  mother  suffer'd, 

And  the  wife  and  the  child  and  the  musing  comrade  suffer'd, 

And  the  armies  that  remain'd  suffer'd. 

16 

Passing  the  visions,  passing  the  night, 

Passing,  unloosing  the  hold  of  my  comrades'  hands, 


262  LEAVES  OP  GRASS. 


Passing  the  song  of  the  hermit  bird  and  the  tallying  song  of  my 

soul, 

Victorious  song,  death's  outlet  song,  yet  varying  ever-altering  song, 
As  low  and  wailing,  yet  clear  the  notes,  rising  and  falling,  flooding 

the  night, 
Sadly  sinking  and  fainting,  as  warning  and  warning,  and  yet  again 

bursting  with  joy, 

Covering  the  earth  and  filling  the  spread  of  the  heaven, 
As  that  powerful  psalm  in  the  night  I  heard  from  recesses, 
Passing,  I  leave  thee  lilac  with  heart-shaped  leaves, 
I   leave   thee   there   in   the  door-yard,  blooming,  returning  with 

spring. 

I  cease  from  my  song  for  thee, 

From  my  gaze  on  thee  in  the  west,  fronting  the  west,  communing 

with  thee, 
O  comrade  lustrous  with  silver  face  in  the  night. 

Yet  each  to  keep  and  all,  retrievements  out  of  the  night, 

The  song,  the  wondrous  chant  of  the  gray-brown  bird, 

And  the  tallying  chant,  the  echo  arous'd  in  my  soul, 

With  the  lustrous  and  drooping  star  with   the   countenance   full 

of  woe, 

With  the  holders  holding  my  hand  nearing  the  call  of  the  bird, 
Comrades   mine  and  I  in  the  midst,  and  their  memory  ever  to 

keep,  for  the  dead  I  loved  so  well, 
For  the  sweetest,  wisest  soul  of  all  my  days  and  lands  —  and  this 

for  his  dear  sake, 

Lilac  and  star  and  bird  twined  with  the  chant  of  my  soul, 
There  in  the  fragrant  pines  and  the  cedars  dusk  and  dim. 


O   CAPTAIN!   MY   CAPTAIN! 

O  CAPTAIN  !  my  Captain  !  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 
The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought  is  won> 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and  daring ; 
But  O  heart !  heart !  heart ! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain  !  my  Captain  !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells ; 

Rise  up  —  for  you  the  flag  is  flung  —  for  you  the  bugle  trills, 


MEMORIES  OF  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN.  263 

For  you   bouquets   and  ribbon'd  wreaths  —  for  you   the  shores 

a-crowding, 

For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces  turning ; 
Here  Captain  !  dear  father  ! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head  ! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck, 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still, 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will, 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed  and  done, 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object  won  j 
Exult  O  shores,  and  ring  O  bells  ! 
But  I  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


HUSH'D   BE   THE   CAMPS   TO-DAY. 
(May  4,  1865.) 

HUSH'D  be  the  camps  to-day, 
And  soldiers  let  us  drape  our  war-worn  weapons, 
And  each  with  musing  soul  retire  to  celebrate, 
Our  dear  commander's  death. 

No  more  for  him  life's  stormy  conflicts, 

Nor  victory,  nor  defeat  —  no  more  time's  dark  events, 

Charging  like  ceaseless  clouds  across  the  sky. 

But  sing  poet  in  our  name, 

Sing  of  the  love  we  bore  him  —  because  you,  dweller  in  camps, 
know  it  truly. 

As  they  invault  the  coffin  there, 

Sing  —  as  they  close  the  doors  of  earth  upon  him  —  one  verse, 

For  the  heavy  hearts  of  soldiers. 


THIS   DUST   WAS   ONCE  THE  MAN. 

THIS  dust  was  once  the  man, 

Gentle,  plain,  just  and  resolute,  under  whose  cautious  hand, 
Against  the  foulest  crime  in  history  known  in  any  land  or  age, 
Was  saved  the  Union  of  these  States. 


264  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


BY  BLUE  ONTARIO'S  SHORE. 


BY  blue  Ontario's  shore, 
As  I  mused  of  these  warlike  days  and  of  peace  returned, 

and  the  dead  that  return  no  more, 

A  Phantom  gigantic  superb,  with  stern  visage  accosted  me, 
Chant  me  the  poem,  it  said,  that  comes  from  the  soul  of  America, 

chant  me  the  carol  of  victory, 

And  strike  up  the  marches  of  Libertad,  marches  more  powerful  yet, 
And  sing  me  before  you  go  the  song  of  the  throes  of  Democracy. 

(Democracy,  the   destin'd  conqueror,  yet   treacherous  lip-smiles 

everywhere, 
And  death  and  infidelity  at  every  step.) 

2 

A  Nation  announcing  itself, 

I  myself  make  the  only  growth  by  which  I  can  be  appreciated, 

I  reject  none,  accept  all,  then  reproduce  all  in  my  own  forms. 

A  breed  whose  proof  is  in  time  and  deeds, 

What  we  are  we  are,  nativity  is  answer  enough  to  objections, 

We  wield  ourselves  as  a  weapon  is  wielded, 

We  are  powerful  and  tremendous  in  ourselves, 

We  are  executive  in  ourselves,  we  are  sufficient  in  the  variety  of 

ourselves, 

We  are  the  most  beautiful  to  ourselves  and  in  ourselves, 
We   stand  self-pois'd  in  the  middle,  branching  thence  over  the 

world, 
From  Missouri,  Nebraska,  or  Kansas,  laughing  attacks  to  scorn. 

Nothing  is  sinful  to  us  outside  of  ourselves, 

Whatever  appears,  whatever  does  not  appear,  we  are  beautiful  or 
sinful  in  ourselves  only. 

(O  Mother  —  O  Sisters  dear  ! 

If  we  are  lost,  no  victor  else  has  destroy'd  us, 

It  is  by  ourselves  we  go  down  to  eternal  night.) 

3 

Have  you  thought  there  could  be  but  a  single  supreme  ? 

There  can  be  any  number  of  supremes  —  one  does  not  counter 
vail  another  any  more  than  one  eyesight  countervails 
another,  or  one  life  countervails  another. 


BY  BLUE  ONTARIO'S  SHORE.  265 

All  is  eligible  to  all, 

All  is  for  individuals,  all  is  for  you, 

No  condition  is  prohibited,  not  God's  or  any. 

All  comes  by  the  body,  only  health  puts  you  rapport  with  the 
universe. 

Produce  great  Persons,  the  rest  follows. 


Piety  and  conformity  to  them  that  like, 

Peace,  obesity,  allegiance,  to  them  that  like, 

I  am  he  who  tauntingly  compels  men,  women,  nations, 

Crying,  Leap  from  your  seats  and  contend  for  your  lives  ! 

I  am  he  who  walks  the  States  with  a  barb'd  tongue,  questioning 

every  one  I  meet, 

Who  are  you  that  wanted  only  to  be  told  what  you  knew  before  ? 
Who  are  you  that  wanted  only  a  book  to  join  you  in  your  nonsense  ? 

(With  pangs  and  cries  as  thine  own  O  bearer  of  many  children, 
These  clamors  wild  to  a  race  of  pride  I  give.) 

O  lands,  would  you  be  freer  than  all  that  has  ever  been  before  ? 
If  you  would  be  freer  than  all  that  has  been  before,  come  listen 
to  me. 

Fear  grace,  elegance,  civilization,  delicatesse, 
Fear  the  mellow  sweet,  the  sucking  of  honey-juice, 
Beware  the  advancing  mortal  ripening  of  Nature, 
Beware  what  precedes  the  decay  of  the  ruggedness  of  states  and 
men. 

5 

Ages,    precedents,    have    long    been    accumulating    undirected 

materials, 
America  brings  builders,  and  brings  its  own  styles. 

The  immortal  poets  of  Asia  and  Europe  have  done  their  work 

and  pass'd  to  other  spheres, 
A  work  remains,  the  work  of  surpassing  all  they  have  done. 

America,  curious  toward  foreign  characters,  stands  by  its  own  at 
all  hazards, 


266  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


Stands   removed,  spacious,  composite,   sound,  initiates  the    true 

use  of  precedents, 
Does  not  repel  them  or  the  past    or  what  they  have  produced 

under  their  forms, 
Takes  the  lesson  with  calmness,  perceivjie  the  corpse  slowly  borne 

from  the  house, 
Perceives  that  it  waits  a  little  while  in  the  door,  that  it  was  fittest 

for  its  days, 
That  its  life  has  descended  to  the  stalwart  and  well-shaped  heir 

who  approaches, 
And  that  he  shall  be  fittest  for  his  days. 

Any  period  one  nation  must  lead, 

One  land  must  be  the  promise  and  reliance  of  the  future. 

These  States  are  the  amplest  poem, 

Here  is  not  merely  a  nation  but  a  teeming  Nation  of  nations, 

Here  the  doings  of  men  correspond  with  the  broadcast  doings  of 

the  day  and  night, 

Here  is  what  moves  in  magnificent  masses  careless  of  particulars, 
Here  are  the  roughs,  beards,  friendliness,  combativeness,  the  soul 

loves, 
Here  the  flowing  trains,  here  the  crowds,  equality,  diversity,  the 

soul  loves. 


Land  of  lands  and  bards  to  corroborate  ! 

Of  them  standing  among  them,  one  lifts  to  the  light  a  west-bred 

face, 
To  him  the  hereditary  countenance  bequeath'd  both  mother's  and 

father's, 

His  first  parts  substances,  earth,  water,  animals,  trees, 
Built  of  the  common  stock,  having  room  for  far  and  near, 
Used  to  dispense  with  other  lands,  incarnating  this  land, 
Attracting  it  body  and  soul  to  himself,  hanging  on  its  neck  with 

incomparable  love, 

Plunging  his  seminal  muscle  into  its  merits  and  demerits, 
Making  its  cities,  beginnings,  events,  diversities,  wars,  vocal  in  him, 
Making  its  rivers,  lakes,  bays,  embouchure  in  him, 
Mississippi  with  yearly  freshets  and  changing  chutes,  Columbia, 

Niagara,  Hudson,  spending  themselves  lovingly  in  him, 
If  the  Atlantic  coast  stretch  or  the  Pacific  coast  stretch,  he  stretch 
ing  with  them  North  or  South, 

Spanning  between  them  East  and  West,  and  touching  whatever  is 
between  them, 


BY  BLUE  ONTARIO'S  SHORE.  267 

Growths  growing  from  him  to  offset  the  growths  of  pine,  cedar, 
hemlock,  live-oak,  locust,  chestnut,  hickory,  cottonwood, 
orange,  magnolia, 

Tangles  as  tangled  in  him  as  any  canebrake  or  swamp, 

He  likening  sides  and  peaks  of  mountains,  forests  coated  with 
northern  transparent  ice, 

Off  him  pasturage  sweet  and  natural  as  savanna,  upland,  prairie, 

Through  him  flights,  whirls,  screams,  answering  those  of  the  fish- 
hawk,  mocking-bird,  night-heron,  and  eagle, 

His  spirit  surrounding  his  country's  spirit,  unclosed  to  good  and 
evil, 

Surrounding  the  essences  of  real  things,  old  times  and  present 
times, 

Surrounding  just  found  shores,  elands,  tribes  of  red  aborigines, 

Weather-beaten  vessels,  landings,  settlements,  embryo  stature  and 
muscle, 

The  haughty  defiance  of  the  Year  One,  war,  peace,  the  formation 
of  the  Constitution, 

The  separate  States,  the  simple  elastic  scheme,  the  immigrants, 

The  Union  always  swarming  with  blatherers  and  always  sure  and 
impregnable, 

The  unsurvey'd  interior,  log-houses,  clearings,  wild  animals,  hunt 
ers,  trappers, 

Surrounding  the  multiform  agriculture,  mines,  temperature,  the 
gestation  of  new  States, 

Congress  convening  every  Twelfth-month,  the  members  duly 
coming  up  from  the  uttermost  parts, 

Surrounding  the  noble  character  of  mechanics  and  farmers,  espe 
cially  the  young  men, 

Responding  their  manners,  speech,  dress,  friendships,  the  gait  they 
have  of  persons  who  never  knew  how  it  felt  to  stand  in  the 
presence  of  superiors, 

The  freshness  and  candor  of  their  physiognomy,  the  copiousness 
and  decision  of  their  phrenology, 

The  picturesque  looseness  of  their  carriage,  their  fierceness  when 
wrong'd, 

The  fluency  of  their  speech,  their  delight  in  music,  their  curiosity, 
good  temper  and  open-handedness,  the  whole  composite 
make, 

The  prevailing  ardor  and  enterprise,  the  large  amativeness, 

The  perfect  equality  of  the  female  with  the  male,  the  fluid  move 
ment  of  the  population, 

The  superior  marine,  free  commerce,  fisheries,  whaling,  gold-dig 
ging; 

Wharf-hemm'd  cities,  railroad  and  steamboat  lines  intersecting  all 
points, 
18 


268  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Factories,  mercantile  life,  labor-saving  machinery,  the  Northeast, 

Northwest,  Southwest, 

Manhattan  firemen,  the  Yankee  swap,  southern  plantation  life, 
Slavery  —  the  murderous,  treacherous  conspiracy  to  raise  it  upon 

the  ruins  of  all  the  rest, 
On  and  on  to  the  grapple  with  it  —  Assassin  !  then  your  life  or 

ours  be  the  stake,  and  respite  no  more. 


(Lo,  high  toward  heaven,  this  day, 

Libertad,  from  the  conqueress'  field  return'd, 

I  mark  the  new  aureola  around  your  head, 

No  more  of  soft  astral,  but  dazzling  and  fierce, 

With  war's  flames  and  the  lambent  lightnings  playing, 

And  your  port  immovable  where  you  stand, 

With  still  the  inextinguishable  glance  and  the  clinch'd  and  lifted  fist, 

And  your  foot  on  the  neck  of  the  menacing  one,  the  scorner 

utterly  crushM  beneath  you, 
The  menacing  arrogant  one  that  strode  and  advanced  with  his 

senseless  scorn,  bearing  the  murderous  knife, 
The  wide-swelling  one,  the  braggart  that  would  yesterday  do  so 

much, 

To-day  a  carrion  dead  and  damn'd,  the  despised  of  all  the  earth, 
An  offal  rank,  to  the  dunghill  maggots  spurn'd.) 

8 

Others  take  finish,  but  the  Republic  is  ever  constructive  and  ever 

keeps  vista, 
Others  adorn  the  past,  but  you  O  days  of  the  present,  I  adorn 

you, 
O  days  of  the  future  I  believe  in  you  —  I  isolate  myself  for  your 

sake, 

O  America  because  you  build  for  mankind  I  build  for  you, 
O  well-beloved  stone-cutters,  I  lead  them  who  plan  with  decision 

and  science, 
Lead  the  present  with  friendly  hand  toward  the  future. 

(Bravas  to  all  impulses  sending  sane  children  to  the  next  age  ! 
But  damn  that  which  spends  itself  with  no  thought  of  the  stain, 
pains,  dismay,  feebleness,  it  is  bequeathing.) 


I  listened  to  the  Phantom  by  Ontario's  shore, 
I  heard  the  voice  arising  demanding  bards, 


By  BLUE  ONTARIO'S  SHORE.  269 

By  them  all  native  and  grand,  by  them  alone  can  these  States  be 
fused  into  the  compact  organism  of  a  Nation. 

To  hold  men  together  by  paper  and  seal  or  by  compulsion  is  no 

account, 
That  only  holds  men  together  which  aggregates  all  in  a  living 

principle,  as  the  hold  of  the  limbs  of  the  body  or  the  fibres 

of  plants. 

Of  all  races  and  eras  these  States  with  veins  full  of  poetical  stuff 
most  need  poets,  and  are  to  have  the  greatest,  and  use 
them  the  greatest, 

Their  Presidents  shall  not  be  their  common  referee  so  much  as 
their  poets  shall. 

(Soul  of  love  and  tongue  of  fire  ! 
Eye  to  pierce  the  deepest  deeps  and  sweep  the  world  ! 
Ah  Mother,  prolific  and  full  in  all  besides,  yet  how  long  barren, 
barren  ?) 

10 

Of  these  States  the  poet  is  the  equable  man, 

Not  in  him  but  off  from  him  things  are  grotesque,  eccentric,  fail 

of  their  full  returns, 

Nothing  out  of  its  place  is  good,  nothing  in  its  place  is  bad, 
He  bestows  on  every  object  or  quality  its  fit  proportion,  neither 

more  nor  less, 

He  is  the  arbiter  of  the  diverse,  he  is  the  key, 
He  is  the  equalizer  of  his  age  and  land, 

He  supplies  what  wants  supplying,  he  checks  what  wants  checking, 
In  peace  out  of  him  speaks  the  spirit  of  peace,  large,  rich,  thrifty, 

building    populous    towns,    encouraging    agriculture,    arts, 

commerce,  lighting  the    study  of  man,  the  soul,  health, 

immortality,  government, 
In  war  he  is  the  best  backer  of  the  war,  he  fetches  artillery  as  good 

as  the  engineer's,  he  can  make  every  word  he  speaks  draw 

blood, 
The  years  straying  toward  infidelity  he  withholds  by  his  steady 

faith, 

He  is  no  arguer,  he  is  judgment,  (Nature  accepts  him  absolutely,) 
He  judges  not  as  the  judge  judges  but  as  the  sun  falling  round  a 

helpless  thing, 

As  he  sees  the  farthest  he  has  the  most  faith, 
His  thoughts  are  the  hymns  of  the  praise  of  things, 
In  the  dispute  on  God  and  eternity  he  is  silent, 


2/O  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

He  sees  eternity  less  like  a  play  with  a  prologue  and  denouement, 
He  sees  eternity  in  men  and  women,  he  does  not  see  men  and 
women  as  dreams  or  dots. 

For  the  great  Idea,  the  idea  of  perfect  and  free  individuals, 

For  that,  the  bard  walks  in  advance,  leader  of  leaders, 

The  attitude  of  him  cheers  up  slaves  and  horrifies  foreign  despots. 

Without  extinction  is  Liberty,  without  retrograde  is  Equality, 
They  live  in  the  feelings  of  young  men  and  the  best  women, 
(Not  for  nothing  have  the  indomitable  heads  of  the  earth  been 
always  ready  to  fall  for  Liberty.) 

ii 

For  the  great  Idea, 

That,  O  my  brethren,  that  is  the  mission  of  poets. 

Songs  of  stern  defiance  ever  ready, 

Songs  of  the  rapid  arming  and  the  march, 

The  flag  of  peace  quick-folded,  and  instead  the  flag  we  know, 

Warlike  flag  of  the  great  Idea. 

(Angry  cloth  I  saw  there  leaping  ! 

I  stand  again  in  leaden  rain  your  flapping  folds  saluting, 

I  sing  you  over  all,  flying  beckoning  through  the  fight  —  O  the 

hard-contested  fight ! 
The  cannons  ope  their  rosy-flashing  muzzles  —  the  hurtled  balls 

scream, 
The  battle-front  forms  amid  the  smoke  —  the  volleys  pour  incessant 

from  the  line, 
Hark,  the  ringing  word  Charge !  —  now  the  tussle  and  the  furious 

maddening  yells, 

Now  the  corpses  tumble  curl'd  upon  the  ground, 
Cold,  cold  in  death,  for  precious  life  of  you, 
Angry  cloth  I  saw  there  leaping.) 

12 

Are  you  he  who  would  assume  a  place  to  teach  or  be  a  poet  here 

in  the  States  ? 
The  place  is  august,  the  terms  obdurate. 

Who  would  assume  to  teach  here  may  well  prepare  himself  body 
and  mind, 

He  may  well  survey,  ponder,  arm,  fortify,  harden,  make  lithe  him 
self, 

He  shall  surely  be  question 'd  beforehand  by  me  with  many  and 
stern  questions. 


BY  BLUE  ONTARIO'S  SHORE.  271 

Who  are  you  indeed  who  would  talk  or  sing  to  America? 

Have  you  studied  out  the  land,  its  idioms  and  men  ? 

Have  you  learn'd  the  physiology,  phrenology,  politics,  geography, 

pride,  freedom,  friendship  of  the  land?  its  substratums  and 

objects  ? 
Have  you  consider'd  the  organic  compact  of  the  first  day  of  the 

first  year  of  Independence,  sign'd  by  the  Commissioners, 

ratified  by  the  States,  and  read  by  Washington  at  the  head 

of  the  army? 

Have  you  possess'd  yourself  of  the  Federal  Constitution  ? 
Do  you  see  who  have  left  all  feudal  processes  and  poems  behind 

them,  and  assumed  the  poems  and  processes  of  Democracy  ? 
Are  you  faithful  to  things?  do  you  teach  what  the  land  and  sea, 

the  bodies  of  men,  womanhood,  amativeness,  heroic  angers, 

teach? 

Have  you  sped  through  fleeting  customs,  popularities  ? 
Can  you  hold  your  hand  against  all  seductions,  follies,  whirls,  fierce 

contentions?  are  you  very  strong?  are  you  really  of  the 

whole  People? 

Are  you  not  of  some  coterie  ?  some  school  or  mere  religion  ? 
Are  you  done  with  reviews  and  criticisms  of  life  ?  animating  now 

to  life  itself? 

Have  you  vivified  yourself  from  the  maternity  of  these  States  ? 
Have  you  too  the  old  ever-fresh  forbearance  and  impartiality? 
Do  you  hold  the  like  love  for  those  hardening  to  maturity  ?  for  the 

last-born  ?  little  and  big  ?  and  for  the  errant  ? 

What  is  this  you  bring  my  America? 

Is  it  uniform  with  my  country? 

Is  it  not  something  that  has  been  better  told  or  done  before  ? 

Have  you  not  imported  this  or  the  spirit  of  it  in  some  ship  ? 

Is  it  not  a  mere  tale  ?  a  rhyme  ?  a  prettiness  ?  —  is  the  good  old 

cause  in  it? 
Has  it  not  dangled  long  at  the  heels  of  the  poets,  politicians, 

literats,  of  enemies'  lands? 

Does  it  not  assume  that  what  is  notoriously  gone  is  still  here  ? 
Does  it  answer  universal  needs  ?  will  it  improve  manners  ? 
Does  it  sound  with  trumpet-voice  the  proud  victory  of  the  Union 

in  that  secession  war  ? 

Can  your  performance  face  the  open  fields  and  the  seaside  ? 
Will  it  absorb  into  me  as  I  absorb  food,  air,  to  appear  again  in  my 

strength,  gait,  face  ? 
Have  real  employments  contributed  to  it?   original  makers,  not 

mere  amanuenses? 
Does  it  meet  modern  discoveries,  calibres,  facts,  face  to  face  ? 


272  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

What  does  it  mean  to  American  persons,  progresses,  cities?  Chi 
cago,  Kanada,  Arkansas? 

Does  it  see  behind  the  apparent  custodians  the  real  custodians 
standing,  menacing,  silent,  the  mechanics,  Manhattanese, 
Western  men,  Southerners,  significant  alike  in  their  apathy, 
and  in  the  promptness  of  their  love  ? 

Does  it  see  what  finally  befalls,  and  has  always  finally  befallen,  each 
temporizer,  patcher,  outsider,  partialist,  alarmist,  infidel, 
who  has  ever  ask'd  any  thing  of  America  ? 

What  mocking  and  scornful  negligence  ? 

The  track  strew'd  with  the  dust  of  skeletons, 

By  the  roadside  others  disdainfully  toss'd. 

13 

Rhymes  and  rhymers  pass  away,  poems  distill'd  from  poems  pass 
away, 

The  swarms  of  reflectors  and  the  polite  pass,  and  leave  ashes, 

Admirers,  importers,  obedient  persons,  make  but  the  soil  of  litera 
ture, 

America  justifies  itself,  give  it  time,  no  disguise  can  deceive  it  or 
conceal  from  it,  it  is  impassive  enough, 

Only  toward  the  likes  of  itself  will  it  advance  to  meet  them, 

If  its  poets  appear  it  will  in  due  time  advance  to  meet  them, 
there  is  no  fear  of  mistake, 

(The  proof  of  a  poet  shall  be  sternly  deferr'd  till  his  country 
absorbs  him  as  affectionately  as  he  has  absorb'd  it.) 

He  masters  whose  spirit  masters,  he  tastes  sweetest  who  results 
sweetest  in  the  long  run, 

The  blood  of  the  brawn  beloved  of  time  is  unconstraint ; 

In  the  need  of  songs,  philosophy,  an  appropriate  native  grand- 
opera,  shipcraft,  any  craft, 

He  or  she  is  greatest  who  contributes  the  greatest  original  prac 
tical  example. 

Already  a  nonchalant  breed,  silently  emerging,  appears  on  the 
streets, 

People's  lips  salute  only  doers,  lovers,  satisfiers,  positive  knowers, 

There  will  shortly  be  no  more  priests,  I  say  their  work  is  done, 

Death  is  without  emergencies  here,  but  life  is  perpetual  emer 
gencies  here, 

Are  your  body,  days,  manners,  superb?  after  death  you  shall  be 
superb, 

Justice,  health,  self-esteem,  clear  the  way  with  irresistible  power ; 

How  dare  you  place  any  thing  before  a  man  ? 


BY  BLUE  ONTARIO'S  SHORE.  273 

14 

Fall  behind  me  States  ! 
A  man  before  all  —  myself,  typical,  before  all. 

Give  me  the  pay  I  have  served  for, 

Give  me  to  sing  the  songs  of  the  great  Idea,  take  all  the  rest, 

I  have  loved  the  earth,  sun,  animals,  I  have  despised  riches, 

I  have  given  alms  to  every  one  that  ask'd,  stood  up  for  the  stupid 

and  crazy,  devoted  my  income  and  labor  to  others, 
Hated  tyrants,  argued  not   concerning   God,  had   patience   and 

indulgence  toward  the  people,  taken  off  my  hat  to  nothing 

known  or  unknown, 
Gone  freely  with  powerful  uneducated  persons  and  with  the  young, 

and  with  the  mothers  of  families, 
Read  these  leaves  to  myself  in  the  open  air,  tried  them  by  trees, 

stars,  rivers, 

Dismiss'd  whatever  insulted  my  own  soul  or  defiled  my  body, 
Claim'd  nothing  to  myself  which  I  have  not  carefully  claim'd  for 

others  on  the  same  terms, 
Sped  to  the  camps,  and  comrades  found  and  accepted  from  every 

State, 
(Upon  this  breast  has  many  a  dying  soldier  lean'd  to  breathe  his 

last, 

This  arm,  this  hand,  this  voice,  have  nourish'd,  rais'd,  restored, 
To  life  recalling  many  a  prostrate  form ;) 
I  am  willing  to  wait  to  be  understood  by  the  growth  of  the  taste 

of  myself, 
Rejecting  none,  permitting  all. 

(Say  O  Mother,  have  I  not  to  your  thought  been  faithful? 
Have  I  not  through  life  kept  you  and  yours  before  me  ?) 

15 

I  swear  I  begin  to  see  the  meaning  of  these  things, 
It  is  not  the  earth,  it  is  not  America  who  is  so  great, 
It  is  I  who  am  great  or  to  be  great,  it  is  You  up  there,  or  any  one, 
It  is  to  walk  rapidly  through  civilizations,  governments,  theories, 
Through  poems,  pageants,  shows,  to  form  individuals. 

Underneath  all,  individuals, 

I  swear  nothing  is  good  to  me  now  that  ignores  individuals, 
The  American  compact  is  altogether  with  individuals, 
The  only  government  is  that  which  makes  minute  of  individuals, 
The  whole  theory  of  the  universe  is  directed  unerringly  to  one 
single  individual  —  namely  to  You. 


274  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

(Mother  !  with  subtle  sense  severe,  with  the  naked  sword  in  your 

hand, 
I  saw  you  at  last  refuse  to  treat  but  directly  with  individuals.) 

16 

Underneath  all,  Nativity, 

I  swear  I  will  stand  by  my  own  nativity,  pious  or  impious  so  be  it  $ 

I  swear  I  am  charm'd  with  nothing  except  nativity, 

Men,  women,  cities,  nations,  are  only  beautiful  from  nativity. 

Underneath  all  is  the  Expression  of  love  for  men  and  women, 
(I  swear  I  have  seen  enough  of  mean  and  impotent  modes  of 

expressing  love  for  men  and  women, 
After  this  day  I  take  my  own  modes  of  expressing  love  for  men 

and  women.) 

I  swear  I  will  have  each  quality  of  my  race  in  myself, 
(Talk  as  you  like,  he  only  suits  these  States  whose  manners  favor 
the  audacity  and  sublime  turbulence  of  the  States.) 

Underneath  the  lessons  of  things,  spirits,  Nature,  governments, 
ownerships,  I  swear  I  perceive  other  lessons, 

Underneath  all  to  me  is  myself,  to  you  yourself,  (the  same  monoto 
nous  old  song.) 

17 

0  I  see  flashing  that  this  America  is  only  you  and  me, 
Its  power,  weapons,  testimony,  are  you  and  me, 

Its  crimes,  lies,  thefts,  defections,  are  you  and  me, 

Its  Congress  is  you  and  me,  the  officers,  capitols,  armies,  ships,  are 

you  and  me, 

Its  endless  gestations  of  new  States  are  you  and  me, 
The  war,  (that  war  so  bloody  and  grim,  the  war  I  will  henceforth 

forget),  was  you  and  me, 
Natural  and  artificial  are  you  and  me, 
Freedom,  language,  poems,  employments,  are  you  and  me, 
Past,  present,  future,  are  you  and  me. 

1  dare  not  shirk  any  part  of  myself, 
Not  any  part  of  America  good  or  bad, 

Not  to  build  for  that  which  builds  for  mankind, 

Not  to  balance  ranks,  complexions,  creeds,  and  the  sexes, 

Not  to  justify  science  nor  the  march  of  equality, 

Nor  to  feed  the  arrogant  blood  of  the  brawn  belov'd  of  time. 


BY  BLUE  ONTARIO'S  SHORE.  275 


I  am  for  those  that  have  never  been  master'd, 

For  men  and  women  whose  tempers  have  never  been  master'd, 

For  those  whom  laws,  theories,  conventions,  can  never  master. 

I  am  for  those  who  walk  abreast  with  the  whole  earth, 
Who  inaugurate  one  to  inaugurate  all. 

I  will  not  be  outfaced  by  irrational  things, 
I  will  penetrate  what  it  is  in  them  that  is  sarcastic  upon  me, 
I  will  make  cities  and  civilizations  defer  to  me, 
This  is  what  I  have  learnt  from  America  —  it  is  the  amount,  and  it 
I  teach  again. 

(Democracy,  while  weapons  were  everywhere  aim'd  at  your  breast, 
I  saw  you  serenely  give  birth  to  immortal  children,  saw  in  dreams 

your  dilating  form, 
Saw  you  with  spreading  mantle  covering  the  world.) 

18 

I  will  confront  these  shows  of  the  day  and  night, 
I  will  know  if  I  am  to  be  less  than  they, 
I  will  see  if  I  am  not  as  majestic  as  they, 
I  will  see  if  I  am  not  as  subtle  and  real  as  they, 
I  will  see  if  I  am  to  be  less  generous  than  they, 
I  will  see  if  I  have  no  meaning,  while  the  houses  and  ships  have 

meaning, 
I  will  see  if  the  fishes  and  birds  are  to  be  enough  for  themselves, 

and  I  am  not  to  be  enough  for  myself. 

I.  match  my  spirit  against  yours  you  orbs,  growths,  mountains, 

brutes, 
Copious  as  you  are  I  absorb  you  all  in  myself,  and  become  the 

master  myself, 
America   isolated   yet   embodying  all,  what   is   it   finally  except 

myself  ? 
These  States,  what  are  they  except  myself  ? 

I  know  now  why  the  earth  is  gross,  tantalizing,  wicked,  it  is  for  my 

sake, 
I  take  you  specially  to  be  mine,  you  terrible,  rude  forms. 

(Mother,  bend  down,  bend  close  to  me  your  face, 
I  know  not  what  these  plots  and  wars  and  deferments  are  for, 
I  know  not  fruition's  success,  but  I  know  that  through  war  and 
crime  your  work  goes  on,  and  must  yet  go  on.) 


276  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

'9 

Thus  by  blue  Ontario's  shore, 

While  the  winds  fann'd  me  and  the  waves  came  trooping  toward 

me, 
I  thrilPd  with  the  power's  pulsations,  and  the  charm  of  my  theme 

was  upon  me, 
Till  the  tissues  that  held  me  parted  their  ties  upon  me. 

And  I  saw  the  free  souls  of  poets, 
The  loftiest  bards  of  past  ages  strode  before  me, 
Strange  large  men,  long  unwaked,  undisclosed,  were  disclosed  to 
me. 


20 

O  my  rapt  verse,  my  call,  mock  me  not ! 

Not  for  the  bards  of  the  past,  not  to  invoke  them  have  I  launch'd 

you  forth, 

Not  to  call  even  those  lofty  bards  here  by  Ontario's  shores, 
Have  I  sung  so  capricious  and  loud  my  savage  song. 

Bards  for  my  own  land  only  I  invoke, 

(For  the  war  the  war  is  over,  the  field  is  clear'd,) 

Till  they  strike  up  marches  henceforth  triumphant  and  onward, 

To  cheer  O  Mother  your  boundless  expectant  soul. 

Bards  of  the  great  Idea !  bards  of  the  peaceful  inventions  !  (for 

the  war,  the  war  is  over  !) 

Yet  bards  of  latent  armies,  a  million  soldiers  waiting  ever-ready, 
Bards  with  songs  as  from  burning  coals  or  the  lightning's  fork'd 

stripes  ! 
Ample   Ohio's,   Kanada's   bards  —  bards   of   California !    inland 

bards  —  bards  of  the  war  ! 
You  by  my  charm  I  invoke. 


REVERSALS. 

LET  that  which  stood  in  front  go  behind, 

Let  that  which  was  behind  advance  to  the  front, 

Let  bigots,  fools,  unclean  persons,  offer  new  propositions, 

Let  the  old  propositions  be  postponed, 

Let  a  man  seek  pleasure  everywhere  except  in  himself, 

Let  a  woman  seek  happiness  everywhere  except  in  herself. 


AUTUMN  RIVULETS.  277 

AUTUMN  RIVULETS. 


AS    CONSEQUENT,  Etc. 

A3  consequent  from  store  of  summer  rains, 
Or  wayward  rivulets  in  autumn  flowing, 
Or  many  a  herb-lined  brook's  reticulations, 
Or  subterranean  sea-rills  making  for  the  sea, 
Songs  of  continued  years  I  sing. 

Life's  ever-modern  rapids  first,  (soon,  soon  to  blend, 
With  the  old  streams  of  death.) 

Some  threading  Ohio's  farm-fields  or  the  woods, 
Some  down  Colorado's  canons  from  sources  of  perpetual  snow, 
Some  half-hid  in  Oregon,  or  away  southward  in  Texas, 
Some  in  the  north  finding  their  way  to  Erie,  Niagara,  Ottawa, 
Some  to  Atlantica's  bays,  and  so  to  the  great  salt  brine. 

In  you  whoe'er  you  are  my  book  perusing, 

In  I  myself,  in  all  the  world,  these  currents  flowing, 

All,  all  toward  the  mystic  ocean  tending. 

Currents  for  starting  a  continent  new, 

Overtures  sent  to  the  solid  out  of  the  liquid, 

Fusion  of  ocean  and  land,  tender  and  pensive  waves, 

(Not  safe  and  peaceful  only,  waves  rous'd  and  ominous  too, 

Out  of  the  depths  the  storm's  abysmic  waves,  who  knows  whence  ? 

Raging  over  the  vast,  with  many  a  broken  spar  and  tatter'd  sail.) 

Or  from  the  sea  of  Time,  collecting  vasting  all,  I  bring, 
A  windrow-drift  of  weeds  and  shells. 

O  little  shells,  so  curious-convolute,  so  limpid-cold  and  voiceless, 
Will  you  not  little  shells  to  the  tympans  of  temples  held, 
Murmurs  and  echoes  still  call  up,  eternity's  music  faint  and  far, 
Wafted  inland,  sent  from  Atlantica's  rim,  strains  for  the  soul  of  the 

prairies, 
Whisper'd  reverberations,  chords  for  the  ear  of  the  West  joyously 

sounding, 

Your  tidings  old,  yet  ever  new  and  untranslatable, 
Infinitesimals  out  of  my  life,  and  many  a  life, 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


(For  not  my  life  and  years  alone  I  give  —  all,  all  I  give,) 
These  waifs  from  the  deep,  cast  high  and  dry, 
Wash'd  on  America's  shores  ? 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  HEROES. 

i 

FOR  the  lands  and  for  these  passionate  days  and  for  myself, 
Now  I  awhile  retire  to  thee  O  soil  of  autumn  fields, 
Reclining  on  thy  breast,  giving  myself  to  thee, 
Answering  the  pulses  of  thy  sane  and  equable  heart, 
Tuning  a  verse  for  thee. 

O  earth  that  hast  no  voice,  confide  to  me  a  voice, 
O  harvest  of  my  lands  —  O  boundless  summer  growths, 
O  lavish  brown  parturient  earth  —  O  infinite  teeming  womb, 
A  song  to  narrate  thee. 


:  Ever  upon  this  stage, 
Is  acted  God's  calm  annual  drama, 
Gorgeous  processions,  songs  of  birds, 
Sunrise  that  fullest  feeds  and  freshens  most  the  soul, 
The  heaving  sea,  the  waves  upon  the  shore,  the  musical,  strong 

waves, 

The  woods,  the  stalwart  trees,  the  slender,  tapering  trees, 
The  liliput  countless  armies  of  the  grass, 
The  heat,  the  showers,  the  measureless  pasturages, 
The  scenery  of  the  snows,  the  winds'  free  orchestra, 
The  stretching  light-hung  roof  of  clouds,  the  clear  cerulean  and 

the  silvery  fringes, 

The  high  dilating  stars,  the  placid  beckoning  stars, 
The  moving  flocks  and  herds,  the  plains  and  emerald  meadows, 
The  shows  of  all  the  varied  lands  and  all  the  growths  and  products, 

3 

Fecund  America  —  to-day, 

Thou  art  all  over  set  in  births  and  joys  ! 

Thou  groan'st  with  riches,  thy  wealth  clothes  thee  as  a  swathing- 

garment, 

Thou  laughest  loud  with  ache  of  great  possessions, 
A  myriad-twining  life   like   interlacing  vines   binds   all  thy  vast 

demesne, 


AUTUMN-  RIVULETS.  279 

As  some  huge  ship  freighted  to  water's  edge  thou   ridest  into 

port, 
As  rain  falls  from  the  heaven  and  vapors  rise  from  earth,  so  have 

the  precious  values  fallen  upon  thee  and  risen  out  of  thee  j 
Thou  envy  of  the  globe  !  thou  miracle  ! 
Thou,  bathed,  choked,  swimming  in  plenty, 
Thou  lucky  Mistress  of  the  tranquil  barns, 
Thou  Prairie  Dame  that  sittest  in  the  middle  and  lookest  out  upon 

thy  world,  and  lookest  East  and  lookest  West, 
Dispensatress,  that  by  a  word  givest  a  thousand  miles,  a  million 

farms,  and  missest  nothing, 
Thou  all-acceptress  —  thou  hospitable,  (thou  only  art  hospitable  a? 

God  is  hospitable.) 


When  late  I  sang  sad  was  my  voice. 

Sad  were  the  shows  around  me  with  deafening  noises  of  hatred 

and  smoke  of  war ; 

In  the  midst  of  the  conflict,  the  heroes,  I  stood, 
Or  pass'd  with  slow  step  through  the  wounded  and  dying. 

But  now  I  sing  not  war, 

Nor  the  measur'd  march  of  soldiers,  nor  the  tents  of  camps, 
Nor  the  regiments  hastily  coming  up  deploying  in  line  of  battle ; 
No  more  the  sad,  unnatural  shows  of  war. 

Ask'd  room  those  flush'd  immortal  ranks,  the  first  forth-stepping 

armies  t 
Ask  room  alas  the  ghastly  ranks,  the  armies  dread  that  follow'd. 

(Pass,  pass,  ye  proud  brigades,  with  your  tramping  sinewy  legs, 
With  your  shoulders  young  and  strong,  with  your  knapsacks  and 

your  muskets ; 
How  elate   I   stood  and  watch'd  you,  where   starting   off  you 

march'd. 

Pass  —  then  rattle  drums  again, 

For  an  army  heaves  in  sight,  O  another  gathering  army, 

Swarming,  trailing  on  the  rear,  O  you  dread  accruing  army, 

O  you  regiments  so  piteous,  with  your  mortal  diarrhoea,  with  your 

fever, 
O  my  land's  maim'd  darlings,  with  the  plenteous  bloody  bandage 

and  the  crutch, 
Lo,  your  pallid  army  follows.) 


28o  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


But  on  these  days  of  brightness, 

On  the  far-stretching  beauteous  landscape,  the  roads  and  lanes 

the  high-piled  farm-wagons,  and  the  fruits  and  barns. 
Should  the  dead  intrude  ? 

Ah  the  dead  to  me  mar  not,  they  fit  well  in  Nature, 

They  fit  very  well  in  the  landscape  under  the  trees  and  grass, 

And  along  the  edge  of  the  sky  in  the  horizon's  far  margin. 

Nor  do  I  forget  you  Departed, 

Nor  in  winter  or  summer  my  lost  ones, 

But  most  in  the  open  air  as  now  when  my  soul  is  rapt  and  at 

peace,  like  pleasing  phantoms, 
Your  memories  rising  glide  silently  by  me. 


I  saw  the  day  the  return  of  the  heroes, 

(Yet  the  heroes  never  surpassed  shall  never  return, 

Them  that  day  I  saw  not.) 

I  saw  the  interminable  corps,  I  saw  the  processions  of  armies, 
I  saw  them  approaching,  defiling  by  with  divisions, 
Streaming  northward,  their  work  done,  camping  awhile  in  clusters 
of  mighty  camps. 

No  holiday  soldiers  —  youthful,  yet  veterans, 

Worn,  swart,  handsome,  strong,  of  the  stock  of  homestead  and 

workshop, 

Harden'd  of  many  a  long  campaign  and  sweaty  march, 
Inured  on  many  a  hard-fought  bloody  field. 

A  pause  —  the  armies  wait, 

A  million  flush'd  embattled  conquerors  wait, 

The  world  too  waits,  then  soft  as  breaking  night  and  sure  as  dawn, 

They  melt,  they  disappear. 

Exult  O  lands  !  victorious  lands  ! 

Not  there  your  victory  on  those  red  shuddering  fields, 

But  here  and  hence  your  victory. 

Melt,  melt  away  ye  armies  —  disperse  ye  blue-clad  soldiers, 
Resolve  ye  back  again,  give  up  for  good  your  deadly  arms, 
Other  the  arms  the  fields  henceforth  for  you,  or  South  or  North, 
With  saner  wars,  sweet  wars,  life-giving  wars. 


AUTUMN  RIVULETS.  281 


Loud  O  my  throat,  and  clear  O  soul ! 

The  season  of  thanks  and  the  voice  of  full-yielding, 

The  chant  of  joy  and  power  for  boundless  fertility. 

All  till'd  and  untill'd  fields  expand  before  me, 
I  see  the  true  arenas  of  my  race,  or  first  or  last, 
Man's  innocent  and  strong  arenas. 

I  see  the  heroes  at  other  toils, 

I  see  well-wielded  in  their  hands  the  better  weapons. 

I  see  where  the  Mother  of  All, 

With  full-spanning  eye  gazes  forth,  dwells  long, 

And  counts  the  varied  gathering  of  the  products. 

Busy  the  far,  the  sunlit  panorama, 
Prairie,  orchard,  and  yellow  grain  of  the  North, 
Cotton  and  rice  of  the  South  and  Louisianian  cane, 
Open  unseeded  fallows,  rich  fields  of  clover  and  timothy, 
Kine  and  horses  feeding,  and  droves  of  sheep  and  swine, 
And  many  a  stately  river  flowing  and  many  a  jocund  brook, 
And  healthy  uplands  with  herby-perfumed  breezes, 
And  the  good  green  grass,  that  delicate  miracle  the  ever-recurring 
grass. 

8 

Toil  on  heroes  !  harvest  the  products  ! 

Not  alone  on  those  warlike  fields  the  Mother  of  All, 

With  dilated  form  and  lambent  eyes  watch'd  you. 

Toil  on  heroes  !  toil  well !  handle  the  weapons  well ! 
The  Mother  of  All,  yet  here  as  ever  she  watches  you. 

Well-pleased  America  thou  beholdest, 

Over  the  fields  of  the  West  those  crawling  monsters, 

The  human-divine  inventions,  the  labor-saving  implements ; 

Beholdest   moving   in   every  direction   imbued   as  with   life   the 

revolving  hay-rakes, 

The  steam-power  reaping-machines  and  the  horse-power  machines, 
The  engines,  thrashers  of  grain  and  cleaners  of  grain,  well  sepa 
rating  the  straw,  the  nimble  work  of  the  patent  pitchfork, 
Beholdest  the  newer  saw-mill,  the  southern  cotton-gin,  and  the 
rice-cleanser. 


282  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


Beneath  thy  look  O  Maternal, 

With  these  and  else  and  with  their  own  strong  hands  the  heroes 
harvest. 

All  gather  and  all  harvest, 

Yet  but  for  thee  O  Powerful,  not  a  scythe  might  swing  as  now  in 

security, 
Not  a  maize-stalk  dangle  as  now  its  silken  tassels  in  peace. 

Under  thee  only  they  harvest,  even  but  a  wisp  of  hay  under  thy 

great  face  only, 
Harvest  the  wheat  of  Ohio,  Illinois,  Wisconsin,  every  barbed  spear 

under  thee, 
Harvest  the  maize  of  Missouri,  Kentucky,  Tennessee,  each  ear  in 

its  light-green  sheath, 

Gather  the  hay  to  its  myriad  mows  in  the  odorous  tranquil  barns, 
Oats  to  their  bins,  the  white  potato,  the  buckwheat  of  Michigan, 

to  theirs ; 
Gather  the  cotton  in  Mississippi  or  Alabama,  dig  and  hoard  the 

golden  the  sweet  potato  of  Georgia  and  the  Carolinas, 
Clip  the  wool  of  California  or  Pennsylvania, 
Cut  the  flax  in  the  Middle  States,  or  hemp  or  tobacco   in   the 

Borders, 
Pick  the  pea  and  the  bean,  or  pull  apples  from  the  trees  or  bunches 

of  grapes  from  the  vines, 

Or  aught  that  ripens  in  all  these  States  or  North  or  South, 
Under  the  beaming  sun  and  under  thee. 


THERE   WAS   A   CHILD   WENT   FORTH. 

THERE  was  a  child  went  forth  every  day, 

And  the  first  object  he  look'd  upon,  that  object  he  became, 

And  that  object  became  part  of  him  for  the  day  or  a  certain  part 

of  the  day, 
Or  for  many  years  or  stretching  cycles  of  years. 

The  early  lilacs  became  part  of  this  child, 

And  grass  and  white  and  red  morning-glories,  and  white  and  red 
clover,  and  the  song  of  the  phcebe-bird, 

And  the  Third-month  lambs  and  the  sow's  pink-faint  litter,  and 
the  mare's  foal  and  the  cow's  calf, 

And  the  noisy  brood  of  the  barnyard  or  by  the  mire  of  the  pond- 
side, 


AUTUMN  RIVULETS.  283 

And  the  fish  suspending  themselves  so  curiously  below  there,  and 

the  beautiful  curious  liquid, 
And  the  water-plants  with  their  graceful  flat  heads,  all  became  part 

of  him. 

The  field-sprouts  of  Fourth-month  and  Fifth-month  became  part 

of  him, 
Winter-grain  sprouts  and  those  of  the  light-yellow  corn,  and  the 

esculent  roots  of  the  garden, 
And  the  apple-trees  cover'd  with  blossoms  and  the  fruit  afterward, 

and  wood-berries,  and  the  commonest  weeds  by  the  road, 
And  the  old  drunkard  staggering  home  from  the  outhouse  of  the 

tavern  whence  he  had  lately  risen, 

And  the  schoolmistress  that  pass'd  on  her  way  to  the  school, 
And  the  friendly  boys  that  pass'd,  and  the  quarrelsome  boys, 
And  the  tidy  and  fresh-cheek'd  girls,  and  the  barefoot  negro  boy 

and  girl, 
And  all  the  changes  of  city  and  country  wherever  he  went. 

His  own  parents,  he  that  had  father'd  him  and  she   that  had  con- 

ceiv'd  him  in  her  womb  and  birth'd  him, 
They  gave  this  child  more  of  themselves  than  that, 
They  gave  him  afterward  every  day,  they  became  part  of  him. 

The  mother  at  home  quietly  placing  the  dishes  on  the  supper- 
table, 

The  mother  with  mild  words,  clean  her  cap  and  gown,  a  whole 
some  odor  falling  off  her  person  and  clothes  as  she  walks  by, 

The  father,  strong,  self-sufficient,  manly,  mean,  anger'd,  unjust, 

The  blow,  the  quick  loud  word,  the  tight  bargain,  the  crafty  lure, 

The  family  usages,  the  language,  the  company,  the  furniture,  the 
yearning  and  swelling  heart, 

Affection  that  will  not  be  gainsay'd,  the  sense  of  what  is  real,  the 
thought  if  after  all  it  should  prove  unreal, 

The  doubts  of  day-time  and  the  doubts  of  night-time,  the  curious 
whether  and  how, 

Whether  that  which  appears  so  is  so,  or  is  it  all  flashes  and  specks  ? 

Men  and  women  crowding  fast  in  the  streets,  if  they  are  not  flashes 
and  specks  what  are  they? 

The  streets  themselves  and  the  facades  of  houses,  and  goods  in 
the  windows, 

Vehicles,  teams,  the  heavy-plank'd  wharves,  the  huge  crossing  at 
the  ferries, 

The  village  on  the  highland  seen  from  afar  at  sunset,  the  river 
between, 
19 


284  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Shadows,  aureola  and  mist,  the  light  falling  on  roofs  and  gables  of 

white  or  brown  two  miles  off, 
The  schooner  near  by  sleepily  dropping  down  the  tide,  the  little 

boat  slack-to w'd  astern, 

The  hurrying  tumbling  waves,  quick-broken  crests,  slapping, 
The  strata  of   color'd  clouds,  the  long  bar  of  maroon-tint  away 

solitary  by  itself,  the  spread  of  purity  it  lies  motionless  in, 
The  horizon's  edge,  the  flying   sea-crow,  the   fragrance   of  salt 

marsh  and  shore  mud, 
These  became  part  of  that  child  who  went  forth  every  day,  and 

who  now  goes,  and  will  always  go  forth  every  day. 


OLD    IRELAND. 

FAR  hence  amid  an  isle  of  wondrous  beauty, 

Crouching  over  a  grave  an  ancient  sorrowful  mother, 

Once  a  queen,  now  lean  and  tatter'd  seated  on  the  ground, 

Her  old  white  hair  drooping  dishevel'd  round  her  shoulders, 

At  her  feet  fallen  an  unused  royal  harp, 

Long  silent,  she  too  long  silent,  mourning  her  shrouded  hope  and 

heir, 
Of  all  the  earth  her  heart  most  full  of  sorrow  because  most  full  of 

love. 

Yet  a  word  ancient  mother, 

You  need  crouch  there  no  longer  on  the  cold  ground  with  fore 
head  between  your  knees, 

O  you  need  not  sit  there  veil'd  in  your  old  white  hair  so  dishevel'd, 
For  know  you  the  one  you  mourn  is  not  in  that  grave, 
It  was  an  illusion,  the  son  you  love  was  not  really  dead, 
The  Lord  is  not  dead,  he  is  risen  again  young  and  strong  in 

another  country, 

Even  while  you  wept  there  by  your  fallen  harp  by  the  grave, 
What  you  wept  for  was  translated,  pass'd  from  the  grave, 
The  winds  favor'd  and  the  sea  saiPd  it, 
And  now  with  rosy  and  new  blood, 
Moves  to-day  in  a  new  country. 


THE   CITY   DEAD-HOUSE. 

BY  the  city  dead-house  by  the  gate, 
As  idly  sauntering  wending  my  way  from  the  clangor, 
I  curious  pause,  for  lo,  an  outcast  form,  a  poor  dead  prostitute 
brought, 


AUTUMN  RIVULETS.  28$ 

Her  corpse  they  deposit  unclaim'd,  it  lies  on  the  damp  brick 

pavement, 

The  divine  woman,  her  body,  I  see  the  body,  I  look  on  it  alone, 
That  house  once  full  of  passion  and  beauty,  all  else  I  notice  not, 
Nor  stillness  so  cold,  nor  running  water  from  faucet,  nor  odors 

morbific  impress  me, 
But  the  house  alone  —  that  wondrous  house  —  that  delicate  fair 

house  —  that  ruin  ! 
That  immortal  house  more  than  all  the  rows  of  dwellings  ever 

built ! 
Or  white-domed  capitol  with  majestic  figure  surmounted,  or  all 

the  old  high-spired  cathedrals, 
That   little   house  alone  more  than  them  all  —  poor,  desperate 

house ! 

Fair,  fearful  wreck  —  tenement  of  a  soul  —  itself  a  soul, 
Unclaim'd,  avoided  house  —  take  one  breath  from  my  tremulous 

lips, 

Take  one  tear  dropt  aside  as  I  go  for  thought  of  you, 
Dead   house   of  love  —  house   of  madness   and   sin,   crumbled, 

crush 'd, 
House  of  life,  erewhile  talking  and  laughing — but  ah,  poor  house, 

dead  even  then, 
Months,  years,  an  echoing,  garnish'd   house  —  but  dead,  dead, 

dead. 


THIS   COMPOST. 


SOMETHING  startles  me  where  I  thought  I  was  safest, 

I  withdraw  from  the  still  woods  I  loved, 

I  will  not  go  now  on  the  pastures  to  walk, 

I  will  not  strip  the  clothes  from  my  body  to  meet  my  lover  the  sea, 

I  will  not  touch  my  flesh  to  the  earth  as  to  other  flesh  to  renew  me. 

O  how  can  it  be  that  the  ground  itself  does  not  sicken? 

How  can  you  be  alive  you  growths  of  spring? 

How  can  you  furnish  health  you  blood  of  herbs,  roots,  orchards, 

grain  ? 

Are  they  not  continually  putting  distemper'd  corpses  within  you  ? 
Is  not  every  continent  work'd  over  and  over  with  sour  dead  ? 

Where  have  you  disposed  of  their  carcasses? 

Those  drunkards  and  gluttons  of  so  many  generations? 


286  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


Where  have  you  drawn  off  all  the  foul  liquid  and  meat? 

I  do  not  see  any  of  it  upon  you  to-day,  or  perhaps  I  am  deceiv'd, 

I  will  run  a  furrow  with  my  plough,  I  will  press  my  spade  through 

the  sod  and  turn  it  up  underneath, 
I  am  sure  I  shall  expose  some  of  the  foul  meat. 


Behold  this  compost !  behold  it  well ! 

Perhaps  every  mite  has  once  form'd  part  of  a  sick  person  —  yet 

behold  ! 

The  grass  of  spring  covers  the  prairies, 

The  bean  bursts  noiselessly  through  the  mould  in  the  garden, 
The  delicate  spear  of  the  onion  pierces  upward, 
The  apple-buds  cluster  together  on  the  apple-branches, 
The  resurrection  of  the  wheat  appears  with  pale  visage  out  of  its 

graves, 

The  tinge  awakes  over  the  willow-tree  and  the  mulberry-tree, 
The  he-birds  carol  mornings  and  evenings  while  the  she-birds  sit 

on  their  nests, 

The  young  of  poultry  break  through  the  hatch'd  eggs, 
The  new-born  of  animals  appear,  the  calf  is  dropt  from  the  cow 

the  colt  from  the  mare, 

Out  of  its  little  hill  faithfully  rise  the  potato's  dark  green  leaves, 
Out  of  its  hill  rises  the  yellow  maize-stalk,  the  lilacs  bloom  in  the 

dooryards, 
The  summer  growth  is  innocent  and  disdainful  above  all   those* 

strata  of  sour  dead. 

What  chemistry  ! 

That  the  winds  are  really  not  infectious, 

That   this   is   no   cheat,  this   transparent   green-wash  of  the  sea 

which  is  so  amorous  after  me, 
That  it  is  safe  to  allow  it  to  lick  my  naked  body  all  over  with  its 

tongues, 
That  it  will  not  endanger  me  with  the  fevers  that  have  deposited 

themselves  in  it, 

That  all  is  clean  forever  and  forever, 
That  the  cool  drink  from  the  well  tastes  so  good, 
That  blackberries  are  so  flavorous  and  juicy, 
That  the  fruits  of  the  apple-orchard  and  the  orange-orchard,  that 

melons,  grapes,  peaches,  plums,  will  none  of  them  poison  me, 
That  when  I  recline  on  the  grass  I  do  not  catch  any  disease, 
Though  probably  every  spear  of  grass  rises  out  of  what  was  once 

a  catching  disease. 


AUTUMN  RIVULETS.  287 

Now  I  am  terrified  at  the  Earth,  it  is  that  calm  and  patient, 

It  grows  such  sweet  things  out  of  such  corruptions, 

It   turns   harmless   and   stainless   on   its  axis,  with  such  endless 

successions  of  diseas'd  corpses, 

It  distills  such  exquisite  winds  out  of  such  infused  fetor, 
It  renews  with  such  unwitting  looks  its  prodigal,  annual,  sumptu 
ous  crops, 

It  gives  such  divine  materials  to  men,  and  accepts  such  leavings 
from  them  at  last. 


TO   A   FOIL'D   EUROPEAN   REVOLUTIONAIRE. 

COURAGE  yet,  my  brother  or  my  sister  ! 

Keep  on  —  Liberty  is  to  be  subserv'd  whatever  occurs  ; 

That  is  nothing  that  is  quell'd  by  one  or  two  failures,  or  any  num 
ber  of  failures, 

Or  by  the  indifference  or  ingratitude  of  the  people,  or  by  any 
unfaithfulness, 

Or  the  show  of  the  tushes  of  power,  soldiers,  cannon,  penal  statutes. 

What  we  believe  in  waits  latent  forever  through  all  the  continents, 
Invites  no  one,  promises  nothing,  sits  in  calmness  and  light,  is 

positive  and  composed,  knows  no  discouragement, 
Waiting  patiently,  waiting  its  time. 

(Not  songs  of  loyalty  alone  are  these, 

But  songs  of  insurrection  also, 

For  I  am  the  sworn  poet  of  every  dauntless  rebel  the  world  over, 

And  he  going  with  me  leaves  peace  and  routine  behind  him, 

And  stakes  his  life  to  be  lost  at  any  moment.) 

The  battle  rages  with  many  a  loud  alarm  and  frequent  advance 
and  retreat, 

The  infidel  triumphs,  or  supposes  he  triumphs, 

The  prison,  scaffold,  garrote,  handcuffs,  iron  necklace  and  lead- 
balls  do  their  work, 

The  named  and  unnamed  heroes  pass  to  other  spheres, 

The  great  speakers  and  writers  are  exiled,  they  lie  sick  in  distant 
lands, 

The  cause  is  asleep,  the  strongest  throats  are  choked  with  their 
own  blood, 

The  young  men  droop  their  eyelashes  toward  the  ground  when 
they  meet ; 

But  for  all  this  Liberty  has  not  gone  out  of  the  place,  nor  the 
infidel  enter'd  into  full  possession. 


288  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

When  liberty  goes  out  of  a  place  it  is  not  the  first  to  go,  nor  the 

second  or  third  to  go, 
It  waits  for  all  the  rest  to  go,  it  is  the  last. 

When  there  are  no  more  memories  of  heroes  and  martyrs, 

And  when  all  life  and  all  the  souls  of  men  and  women  are  dis 
charged  from  any  part  of  the  earth, 

Then  only  shall  liberty  or  the  idea  of  liberty  be  discharged  from 
that  part  of  the  earth, 

And  the  infidel  come  into  full  possession. 

Then  courage  European  revolter,  revoltress ! 
For  till  all  ceases  neither  must  you  cease. 

I  do  not  know  what  you  are  for,  (I  do  not  know  what  I  am  for 

myself,  nor  what  any  thing  is  for,) 
But  I  will  search  carefully  for  it  even  in  being  foiFd, 
In  defeat,  poverty,  misconception,  imprisonment  —  for  they  too 

are  great. 

Did  we  think  victory  great? 

So  it  is  —  but  now  it  seems  to  me,  when  it  cannot  be  help'd,  that 

defeat  is  great, 
And  that  death  and  dismay  are  great. 


UNNAMED   LANDS. 

NATIONS  ten  thousand  years  before  these  States,  and  many  times 

ten  thousand  years  before  these  States, 
Garner'd  clusters  of  ages  that  men  and  women  like  us  grew  up  and 

travel'd  their  course  and  pass'd  on, 
What  vast-built  cities,  what  orderly  republics,  what  pastoral  tribes 

and  nomads, 

What  histories,  rulers,  heroes,  perhaps  transcending  all  others, 
What  laws,  customs,  wealth,  arts,  traditions, 
What   sort    of    marriage,    what   costumes,   what  physiology  and 

phrenology, 
What  of  liberty  and  slavery  among  them,  what  they  thought  of 

death  and  the  soul, 
Who  were  witty  and  wise,  who  beautiful  and  poetic,  who  brutish 

and  undevelop'd, 
Not  a  mark,  not  a  record  remains  —  and  yet  all  remains. 

O  I  know  that  those  men  and  women  were  not  for  nothing,  any 
more  than  we  are  for  nothing, 


AUTUMN  RIVULETS.  289 


I  Know  that  they  belong  to  the  scheme  of  the  world  every  bit  as 
much  as  we  now  belong  to  it. 

Afar  they  stand,  yet  near  to  me  they  stand, 

Some  with  oval  countenances  learn 'd  and  calm, 

Some  naked  and  savage,  some  like  huge  collections  of  insects, 

Some  in  tents,  herdsmen,  patriarchs,  tribes,  horsemen, 

Some  prowling  through  woods,  some  living  peaceably  on  farms, 

laboring,  reaping,  filling  barns, 
Some  traversing  paved  avenues,  amid  temples,  palaces,  factories, 

libraries,  shows,  courts,  theatres,  wonderful  monuments. 

Are  those  billions  of  men  really  gone  ? 

Are  those  women  of  the  old  experience  of  the  earth  gone  ? 

Do  their  lives,  cities,  arts,  rest  only  with  us  ? 

Did  they  achieve  nothing  for  good  for  themselves  ? 

I  believe  of  all  those  men  and  women  that  fill'd  the  unnamed 
lands,  every  one  exists  this  hour  here  or  elsewhere,  invisible 
to  us, 

In  exact  proportion  to  what  he  or  she  grew  from  in  life,  and  out 
of  what  he  or  she  did,  felt,  became,  loved,  sinn'd,  in  life. 

I  believe  that  was  not  the  end  of  those  nations  or  any  person  of 

them,  any  more  than  this  shall  be  the  end  of  my  nation,  or 

of  me; 
Of  their  languages,  governments,  marriage,  literature,  products, 

games,  wars,  manners,  crimes,  prisons,  slaves,  heroes,  poets, 
I  suspect  their  results  curiously  await  in  the  yet  unseen  world, 

counterparts  of  what  accrued  to  them  in  the  seen  world, 
I  suspect  I  shall  meet  them  there, 
I  suspect  I  shall  there  find  each  old  particular  of  those  unnamed 

lands. 

SONG   OF   PRUDENCE. 

MANHATTAN'S  streets  I  saunter'd  pondering, 

On  Time,  Space,  Reality  —  on  such  as  these,  and  abreast  with 
them  Prudence. 

The  last  explanation  always  remains  to  be  made  about  prudence, 
Little  and  large  alike  drop  quietly  aside  from  the  prudence  that 
suits  immortality. 

The  soul  is  of  itself, 

All  verges  to  it,  all  has  reference  to  what  ensues, 


290  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

All  that  a  person  does,  says,  thinks,  is  of  consequence, 

Not  a  move  can  a  man  or  woman  make,  that  affects  him  or  her  in 

a  day,  month,  any  part  of  the  direct  lifetime,  or  the  hour 

of  death, 
But  the  same  affects  him  or  her  onward  afterward  through  the 

indirect  lifetime. 

The  indirect  is  just  as  much  as  the  direct, 

The  spirit  receives  from  the  body  just  as  much  as  it  gives  to  the 
body,  if  not  more. 

Not  one  word  or  deed,  not  venereal  sore,  discoloration,  privacy 

of  the  onanist, 
Putridity  of  gluttons  or  rum-drinkers,  peculation,  cunning,  betrayal, 

murder,  seduction,  prostitution, 
But  has  results  beyond  death  as  really  as  before  death. 

Charity  and  personal  force  are  the  only  investments  worth  any 
thing. 

No  specification  is  necessary,  all  that  a  male  or  female  does,  that  is 
vigorous,  benevolent,  clean,  is  so  much  profit  to  him  or  her, 

In  the  unshakable  order  of  the  universe  and  through  the  whole 
scope  of  it  forever. 

Who  has  been  wise  receives  interest, 

Savage,  felon,  President,  judge,  farmer,  sailor,  mechanic,  literat, 

young,  old,  it  is  the  same, 
The  interest  will  come  round  —  all  will  come  round. 

Singly,  wholly,  to  affect  now,  affected  their  time,  will  forever  affect, 

all  of  the  past  and  all  of  the  present  and  all  of  the  future, 
All  the  brave  actions  of  war  and  peace, 
All  help  given  to  relatives,  strangers,  the  poor,  old,  sorrowful,  young 

children,  widows,  the  sick,  and  to  shunn'd  persons, 
All  self-denial  that  stood  steady  and  aloof  on  wrecks,  and  saw 

others  fill  the  seats  of  the  boats, 
All  offering  of  substance  or  life  for  the  good  old  cause,  or  for  a 

friend's  sake,  or  opinion's  sake, 
All  pains  of  enthusiasts  scoff 'd  at  by  their  neighbors, 
All  the  limitless  sweet  love  and  precious  suffering  of  mothers, 
All  honest  men  baffled  in  strifes  recorded  or  unrecorded, 
All  the  grandeur  and  good  of  ancient  nations  whose  fragments  we 

inherit, 
All  the  good  of  the  dozens  of  ancient  nations  unknown  to  us  by 

name,  date,  location, 


AUTUMN  RIVULETS.  291 

All  that  was  ever  manfully  begun,  whether  it  succeeded  or  no, 
All  suggestions  of  the  divine  mind  of  man  or  the  divinity  of  his 

mouth,  or  the  shaping  of  his  great  hands, 
All  that  is  well  thought  or  said  this  day  on  any  part  of  the  globe, 

or  on  any  of  the  wandering  stars,  or  on  any  of  the  fix'd 

stars,  by  those  there  as  we  are  here, 
All  that  is  henceforth  to  be  thought  or  done  by  you  whoever  you 

are,  or  by  any  one, 
These  inure,  have  inured,  shall  inure,  to  the  identities  from  which 

they  sprang,  or  shall  spring. 

Did  you  guess  any  thing  lived  only  its  moment  ? 

The  world  does  not  so  exist,  no  parts  palpable  or  impalpable  so 

exist, 
No  consummation  exists  without  being  from  some  long  previous 

consummation,  and  that  from  some  other, 
Without  the  farthest  conceivable  one  coming  a   bit  nearer  the 

beginning  than  any. 

Whatever  satisfies  souls  is  true  ; 

Prudence  entirely  satisfies  the  craving  and  glut  of  souls, 
Itself  only  finally  satisfies  the  soul, 

The  soul  has  that  measureless  pride  which  revolts  from  every  lesson 
but  its  own. 

Now  I  breathe  the  word  of  the  prudence  that  walks  abreast  with 

time,  space,  reality, 
That  answers  the  pride  which  refuses  every  lesson  but  its  own. 

What  is  prudence  is  indivisible, 

Declines  to  separate  one  part  of  life  from  every  part, 

Divides  not  the  righteous  from  the  unrighteous  or  the  living  from 

the  dead, 

Matches  every  thought  or  act  by  its  correlative, 
Knows  no  possible  forgiveness  or  deputed  atonement, 
Knows  that  the  young  man  who  composedly  peril'd  his  life  and 

lost  it  has  done  exceedingly  well  for  himself  without  doubt, 
That  he  who  never  peril'd  his  life,  but  retains  it  to  old  age  in 

riches  and  ease,  has  probably  achiev'd  nothing  for  himself 

worth  mentioning, 
Knows  that  only  that  person  has  really  learn'd  who  has  learn'd  to 

prefer  results, 

Who  favors  body  and  soul  the  same, 
Who  perceives  the  indirect  assuredly  following  the  direct, 
Who  in  his  spirit  in  any  emergency  whatever  neither  hurries  nor 

avoids  death. 


2Q2  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

THE   SINGER   IN   THE   PRISON. 


O  sight  of  pity,  shame  and  dole  ! 
O  fearful  thought —  a  convict  soul. 

RANG  the  refrain  along  the  hall,  the  prison, 

Rose  to  the  roof,  the  vaults  of  heaven  above, 

Pouring  in  floods  of  melody  in  tones  so  pensive  sweet  and  strong 

the  like  whereof  was  never  heard, 
Reaching  the  far-off  sentry  and  the  armed  guards,  who  ceas'd  their 

pacing, 
Making  the  hearer's  pulses  stop  for  ecstasy  and  awe. 


The  sun  was  low  in  the  west  one  winter  day, 

When  down  a  narrow  aisle  amid  the  thieves  and  outlaws  of  the 

land, 

(There  by  the  hundreds  seated,  sear-faced  murderers,  wily  counter 
feiters, 

Gather'd  to  Sunday  church  in  prison  walls,  the  keepers  round, 
Plenteous,  well-armed,  watching  with  vigilant  eyes,) 
Calmly  a  lady  walk'd  holding  a  little  innocent   child   by  either 

hand, 

Whom  seating  on  their  stools  beside  her  on  the  platform, 
She,  first  preluding  with  the  instrument  a  low  and  musical  prelude, 
In  voice  surpassing  all,  sang  forth  a  quaint  old  hymn. 

A  soul  confined  by  bars  and  bands, 
Cries,  help  !  O  help  !  and  wrings  her  hands, 
Blinded  her  eyes,  bleeding  her  breast, 
Nor  pardon  finds,  nor  balm  of  rest. 

Ceaseless  she  paces  to  and  fro, 
O  heart-sick  days  !  O  nights  of  woe  ! 
Nor  hand  of  friend,  nor  loving  face, 
Nor  favor  comes,  nor  word  of  grace. 

It  was  not  I  that  sinn'd  the  sin, 
The  ruthless  body  dragg'd  me  in ; 
Though  long  I  strove  courageously, 
The  body  was  too  much  for  me. 

Dear  prison 'd  soul  bear  up  a  space, 
For  soon  or  late  the  certain  grace  ; 


AUTUMN  RIVULETS.  293 

To  set  thee  free  and  bear  thee  home, 
The  heavenly  pardoner  death  shall  come. 

Convict  no  more,  nor  shame,  nor  dole  / 
Depart —  a  God-enfranchised  soul! 

3 

The  singer  ceas'd, 
One  glance  swept  from  her  clear  calm  eyes  o'er  all  those  upturn'd 

faces, 
Strange   sea  of  prison   faces,  a  thousand  varied,  crafty,  brutal, 

seam'd  and  beauteous  faces, 

Then  rising,  passing  back  along  the  narrow  aisle  between  them, 
While  her  gown  touch'd  them  rustling  in  the  silence, 
She  vanish'd  with  her  children  in  the  dusk. 

While  upon  all,  convicts  and  armed  keepers  ere  they  stirr'd, 

(Convict  forgetting  prison,  keeper  his  loaded  pistol,) 

A  hush  and  pause  fell  down  a  wondrous  minute, 

With  deep  half-stifled  sobs  and  sound  of  bad   men  bow'd  and 

moved  to  weeping, 

And  youth's  convulsive  breathings,  memories  of  home, 
The  mother's  voice  in  lullaby,  the  sister's  care,  the  happy  childhood, 
The  long-pent  spirit  rous'd  to  reminiscence ; 
A  wondrous  minute  then  —  but  after  in  the  solitary  night,  to  many, 

many  there, 
Years  after,  even  in  the  hour  of  death,  the  sad  refrain,  the  tune, 

the  voice,  the  words, 

Resumed,  the  large  calm  lady  walks  the  narrow  aisle, 
The  wailing  melody  again,  the  singer  in  the  prison  sings, 

O  sight  of  pity,  shame  and  dole  ! 
O  fearful  thought —  a  convict  soul. 


WARBLE   FOR  LILAC-TIME. 

WARBLE  me  now  for  joy  of  lilac-time,  (returning  in  reminiscence,) 
Sort  me  O  tongue  and  lips  for  Nature's  sake,  souvenirs  of  earliest 

summer, 
Gather  the  welcome  signs,  (as  children  with  pebbles  or  stringing 

shells,) 
Put  in  April  and  May,  the  hylas  croaking  in  the  ponds,  the  elastic 

air, 
Bees,  butterflies,  the  sparrow  with  its  simple  notes, 


294  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


Blue-bird  and  darting  swallow,  nor  forget  the  high-hole  flashing 

his  golden  wings, 

The  tranquil  sunny  haze,  the  clinging  smoke,  the  vapor, 
Shimmer  of  waters  with  fish  in  them,  the  cerulean  above, 
All  that  is  jocund  and  sparkling,  the  brooks  running, 
The  maple  woods,  the  crisp  February  days  and  the  sugar-making, 
The  robin  where  he  hops,  bright-eyed,  brown-breasted, 
With  musical  clear  call  at  sunrise,  and  again  at  sunset, 
Or  flitting  among  the  trees  of  the  apple-orchard,  building  the  nest 

of  his  mate, 

The  melted  snow  of  March,  the  willow  sending  forth  its  yellow- 
green  sprouts, 
For  spring-time  is  here  !  the  summer  is  here  !  and  what  is  this 

in  it  and  from  it? 

Thou,  soul,  unloosen'd  —  the  restlessness  after  I  know  not  what ; 
Come,  let  us  lag  here  no  longer,  let  us  be  up  and  away  ! 
O  if  one  could  but  fly  like  a  bird  ! 
O  to  escape,  to  sail  forth  as  in  a  ship  ! 

To  glide  with  thee  O  soul,  o'er  all,  in  all,  as  a  ship  o'er  the  waters ; 
Gathering  these  hints,  the  preludes,  the  blue  sky,  the  grass,  the 

morning  drops  of  dew, 

The  lilac-scent,  the  bushes  with  dark  green  heart-shaped  leaves, 
Wood-violets,  the  little  delicate  pale  blossoms  called  innocence, 
Samples  and  sorts  not  for  themselves  alone,  but  for  their  atmos 
phere, 

To  grace  the  bush  I  love  —  to  sing  with  the  birds, 
A  warble  for  joy  of  lilac-time,  returning  in  reminiscence. 


OUTLINES   FOR   A  TOMB. 
(G.  P.,  Buried  1870.) 


WHAT  may  we  chant,  O  thou  within  this  tomb  ? 

What  tablets,  outlines,  hang  for  thee,  O  millionnaire  ? 

The  life  thou  lived'st  we  know  not, 

But  that  thou  walk'dst  thy  years  in  barter,  'mid  the  haunts  of 

brokers, 
Nor  heroism  thine,  nor  war,  nor  glory. 

2 

Silent,  my  soul, 

With  drooping  lids,  as  waiting,  ponder'd, 
Turning  from  all  the  samples,  monuments  of  heroes. 


AUTUMN  RIVULETS.  295 

While  through  the  interior  vistas, 

Noiseless  uprose,  phantasmic,  (as  by  night  Auroras  of  the  north,) 

Lambent  tableaus,  prophetic,  bodiless  scenes, 

Spiritual  projections. 

In  one,  among  the  city  streets  a  laborer's  home  appear'd, 

After  his  day's  work  done,  cleanly,  sweet-air'd,  the  gaslight  burning, 

The  carpet  swept  and  a  fire  in  the  cheerful  stove. 

In  one,  the  sacred  parturition  scene, 

A  happy  painless  mother  birth'd  a  perfect  child. 

In  one,  at  a  bounteous  morning  meal, 
Sat  peaceful  parents  with  contented  sons. 

In  one,  by  twos  and  threes,  young  people, 

Hundreds  concentring,  walk'd  the  paths  and  streets  and  roads, 

Toward  a  tall-domed  school. 

In  one  a  trio  beautiful, 

Grandmother,  loving  daughter,  loving  daughter's  daughter,  sat, 

Chatting  and  sewing. 

In  one,  along  a  suite  of  noble  rooms, 

'Mid  plenteous  books  and  journals,  paintings  on  the  walls,  fine 

statuettes, 

Were  groups  of  friendly  journeymen,  mechanics  young  and  old, 
Reading,  conversing. 

All,  all  the  shows  of  laboring  life, 

City  and  country,  women's,  men's  and  children's, 

Their  wants  provided  for,  hued  in  the  sun  and  tinged  for  once 
with  joy, 

Marriage,  the  street,  the  factory,  farm,  the  house-room,  lodging- 
room, 

Labor  and  toil,  the  bath,  gymnasium,  playground,  library,  college, 

The  student,  boy  or  girl,  led  forward  to  be  taught, 

The  sick  cared  for,  the  shoeless  shod,  the  orphan  father'd  and 
mother'd, 

The  hungry  fed,  the  houseless  housed ; 

(The  intentions  perfect  and  divine, 

The  workings,  details,  haply  human.) 

3 

O  thou  within  this  tomb, 

From  thee  such  scenes,  thou  stintless,  lavish  giver, 


296  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


Tallying  the  gifts  of  earth,  large  as  the  earth, 

Thy  name  an  earth,  with  mountains,  fields  and  tides. 

Nor  by  your  streams  alone,  you  rivers, 

By  you,  your  banks  Connecticut, 

By  you  and  all  your  teeming  life  old  Thames, 

By  you  Potomac   laving   the   ground  Washington  trod,  by  you 

Patapsco, 

You  Hudson,  you  endless  Mississippi  —  nor  you  alone, 
But  to  the  high  seas  launch,  my  thought,  his  memory. 


OUT   FROM  BEHIND   THIS   MASK. 

(  To  Confront  a  Portrait.) 


Our  from  behind  this  bending  rough-cut  mask, 

These  lights  and  shades,  this  drama  of  the  whole, 

This  common  curtain  of  the  face  contain'd  in  me  for  me,  in  you 

for  you,  in  each  for  each, 

(Tragedies,  sorrows,  laughter,  tears  —  O  heaven  ! 
The  passionate  teeming  plays  this  curtain  hid  !) 
This  glaze  of  God's  serenest  purest  sky, 
This  film  of  Satan's  seething  pit, 
This  heart's  geography's  map,  this  limitless  small  continent,  this 

soundless  sea ; 

Out  from  the  convolutions  of  this  globe, 
This  subtler  astronomic  orb  than  sun  or  moon,  than  Jupiter,  Venus, 

Mars, 

This  condensation  of  the  universe,  (nay  here  the  only  universe, 
Here  the  idea,  all  in  this  mystic  handful  wrapt ;) 
These  burin'd  eyes,  flashing  to  you  to  pass  to  future  time, 
To  launch  and  spin  through  space  revolving  sideling,  from  these 

to  emanate, 
To  you  whoe'er  you  are  —  a  look. 


A  traveler  of  thoughts  and  years,  of  peace  and  war, 

Of  youth  long  sped  and  middle  age  declining, 

(As  the  first  volume  of  a  tale  perused  and  laid  away,  and  this  the 

second, 

Songs,  ventures,  speculations,  presently  to  close,) 
Lingering  a  moment  here  and  now,  to  you  I  opposite  turn, 


A  VTUMN  RIVULETS.  297 

A.S  on  the  road  or  at  some  crevice  door  by  chance,  or  open'd  win 
dow, 

Pausing,  inclining,  baring  my  head,  you  specially  I  greet, 
To  draw  and  clinch  your  soul  for  once  inseparably  with  mine, 
Then  travel  travel  on. 


VOCALISM. 


VOCALISM,  measure,  concentration,  determination,  and  the  divine 
power  to  speak  words  ; 

Are  you  full-lung'd  and  limber-lipp'd  from  long  trial?  from  vigor 
ous  practice  ?  from  physique  ? 

Do  you  move  in  these  broad  lands  as  broad  as  they? 

Come  duly  to  the  divine  power  to  speak  words  ? 

For  only  at  last  after  many  years,  after  chastity,  friendship,  procrea 
tion,  prudence,  and  nakedness, 

After  treading  ground  and  breasting  river  and  lake, 

After  a  loosen'd  throat,  after  absorbing  eras,  temperaments,  races, 
after  knowledge,  freedom,  crimes, 

After  complete  faith,  after  clarifyings,  elevations,  and  removing 
obstructions, 

After  these  and  more,  it  is  just  possible  there  comes  to  a  man,  a 
woman,  the  divine  power  to  speak  words ; 

Then  toward  that  man  or  that  woman  swiftly  hasten  all  —  none 
refuse,  all  attend, 

Annies,  ships,  antiquities,  libraries,  paintings,  machines,  cities, 
hate,  despair,  amity,  pain,  theft,  murder,  aspiration,  form  in 
close  ranks, 

They  debouch  as  they  are  wanted  to  march  obediently  through 
the  mouth  of  that  man  or  that  woman. 

2 

O  what  is  it  in  me  that  makes  me  tremble  so  at  voices  ? 

Surely  whoever  speaks  to  me  in  the  right  voice,  him  or  her  I  shall 

follow, 
As  the  water  follows  the  moon,  silently,  with  fluid  steps,  anywhere 

around  the  globe. 

All  waits  for  the  right  voices  ; 

Where  is  the  practis'd  and  perfect  organ?  where  is  the  develop'd 

soul? 
For  I  see  every  word  utter'd  thence   has   deeper,  sweeter,  new 

sounds,  impossible  on  less  terms. 


298  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

I  see  brains  and  lips  closed,  tympans  and  temples  unstruck, 
Until  that  comes  which  has  the  quality  to  strike  and  to  unclose, 
Until  that  comes  which  has  the  quality  to  bring  forth  what  lies 
slumbering  forever  ready  in  all  words. 


TO   HIM   THAT   WAS   CRUCIFIED. 

MY  spirit  to  yours  dear  brother, 

Do  not  mind  because  many  sounding  your  name  do  not  under 
stand  you, 

I  do  not  sound  your  name,  but  I  understand  you, 

I  specify  you  with  joy  O  my  comrade  to  salute  you,  and  to  salute 
those  who  are  with  you,  before  and  since,  and  those  to 
come  also, 

That  we  all  labor  together  transmitting  the  same  charge  and  suc 
cession, 

We  few  equals  indifferent  of  lands,  indifferent  of  times, 

We,  enclosers  of  all  continents,  all  castes,  allowers  of  all  theologies, 

Compassionaters,  perceivers,  rapport  of  men, 

We  walk  silent  among  disputes  and  assertions,  but  reject  not  the 
disputers  nor  any  thing  that  is  asserted, 

We  hear  the  bawling  and  din,  we  are  reach'd  at  by  divisions,  jeal 
ousies,  recriminations  on  every  side, 

They  close  peremptorily  upon  us  to  surround  us,  my  comrade, 

Yet  we  walk  unheld,  free,  the  whole  earth  over,  journeying  up  and 
down  till  we  make  our  ineffaceable  mark  upon  time  and  the 
diverse  eras, 

Till  we  saturate  time  and  eras,  that  the  men  and  women  of  races, 
ages  to  come,  may  prove  brethren  and  lovers  as  we  are. 


YOU   FELONS   ON   TRIAL   IN    COURTS. 

You  felons  on  trial  in  courts, 

You  convicts  in  prison-cells,  you  sentenced  assassins  chain'd  and 

handcuff'd  with  iron, 

Who  am  I  too  that  I  am  not  on  trial  or  in  prison  ? 
Me  ruthless  and  devilish  as  any,  that  my  wrists  are  not  chain'd 

with  iron,  or  my  ankles  with  iron  ? 

You  prostitutes  flaunting  over  the  trottoirs  or  obscene  in  your 

rooms, 
Who  am  I  that  I  should  call  you  more  obscene  than  myself  ? 


AUTUMN  RIVULETS.  299 

0  culpable  !  I  acknowledge  —  I  expose*  ! 

(O  admirers,  praise  not  me  —  compliment  not  me  —  you  make 
me  wince, 

1  see  what  you  do  not  —  I  know  what  you  do  not.) 

Inside  these  breast-bones  I  lie  smutch'd  and  choked, 

Beneath  this  face  that  appears  so  impassive  hell's  tides  continually 

run, 

Lusts  and  wickedness  are  acceptable  to  me, 
I  walk  with  delinquents  with  passionate  love, 
I  feel  I  am  of  them  —  I  belong  to  those  convicts  and  prostitutes 

myself, 
And  henceforth  I  will  not  deny  them  —  for  how  can  I  deny  myself  ? 


LAWS    FOR   CREATIONS. 

LAWS  for  creations, 

For  strong  artists  and  leaders,  for  fresh  broods  of  teachers  and 

perfect  literats  for  America, 
For  noble  savans  and  coming  musicians. 

All  must  have  reference  to  the  ensemble  of  the  world,  and  the 
compact  truth  of  the  world, 

There  shall  be  no  subject  too  pronounced  —  all  works  shall  illus 
trate  the  divine  law  of  indirections. 

What  do  you  suppose  creation  is? 

What  do  you  suppose  will  satisfy  the  soul,  except  to  walk  free  and 

own  no  superior? 
What  do  you  suppose  I  would  intimate  to  you  in  a  hundred  ways, 

but  that  man  or  woman  is  as  good  as  God  ? 
And  that  there  is  no  God  any  more  divine  than  Yourself  ? 
And  that  that  is  what  the  oldest  and  newest  myths  finally  mean  ? 
And  that  you  or  any  one  must  approach  creations  through  such 

laws? 


TO   A   COMMON    PROSTITUTE. 

BE  composed  —  be  at  ease  with  me  —  I  am  Walt  Whitman,  liberal 

and  lusty  as  Nature, 

Not  till  the  sun  excludes  you  do  I  exclude  you, 
Not  till  the  waters  refuse  to  glisten  for  you  and  the  leaves  to  rustle 

for  you,  do  my  words  refuse  to  glisten  and  rustle  for  you. 
20 


3°°  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

My  girl  I  appoint  with  you  an  appointment,  and  I  charge  you  that 

you  make  preparation  to  be  worthy  to  meet  me, 
And  I  charge  you  that  you  be  patient  and  perfect  till  I  come. 

Till  then  I  salute  you*with  a  significant  look  that  you  do  not  forget 
me. 


I  WAS  LOOKING  A  LONG  WHILE. 

I  WAS  looking  a  long  while  for  Intentions, 

For  a  clew  to  the  history  of  the  past  for  myself,  and  for  these 
chants  —  and  now  I  have  found  it, 

It  is  not  in  those  paged  fables  in  the  libraries,  (them  I  neither 
accept  nor  reject,) 

It  is  no  more  in  the  legends  than  in  all  else, 

It  is  in  the  present  —  it  is  this  earth  to-day, 

It  is  in  Democracy — (the  purport  and  aim  of  all  the  past,) 

It  is  the  life  of  one  man  or  one  woman  to-day  —  the  average  mac 
of  to-day, 

It  is  in  languages,  social  customs,  literatures,  arts, 

It  is  in  the  broad  show  of  artificial  things,  ships,  machinery,  poli 
tics,  creeds,  modern  improvements,  and  the  interchange  of 
nations, 

All  fcr  the  modern  —  all  for  the  average  man  of  to-day. 


THOUGHT. 

OF  persons  arrived  at  high  positions,  ceremonies,  wealth,  scholar 
ships,  and  the  like ; 

(To  me  all  that  those  persons  have  arrived  at  sinks  away  from 
them,  except  as  it  results  to  their  bodies  and  souls, 

So  that  often  to  me  they  appear  gaunt  and  naked, 

And  often  to  me  each  one  mocks  the  others,  and  mocks  himself  or 
herself, 

And  of  each  one  the  core  of  life,  namely  happiness,  is  full  of  the 
rotten  excrement  of  maggots, 

And  often  to  me  those  men  and  women  pass  unwittingly  the  true 
realities  of  life,  and  go  toward  false  realities, 

And  often  to  me  they  are  alive  after  what  custom  has  served  them, 
but  nothing  more, 

And  often  to  me  they  are  sad,  hasty,  unwaked  sonnambules  walk 
ing  the  dusk.) 


AUTUMN  RIVULETS.  3O1 


MIRACLES. 

WHY,  who  makes  much  of  a  miracle  ? 

As  to  me  I  know  of  nothing  else  but  miracles, 

Whether  I  walk  the  streets  of  Manhattan, 

Or  dart  my  sight  over  the  roofs  of  houses  toward  the  sky, 

Or  wade  with  naked  feet  along  the  beach  just  in  the  edge  of  the 

water, 

Or  stand  under  trees  in  the  woods, 
Or  talk  by  day  with  any  one  I  love,  or  sleep  in  the  bed  at  night 

with  any  one  I  love, 
Or  sit  at  table  at  dinner  with  the  rest, 
Or  look  at  strangers  opposite  me  riding  in  the  car, 
Or  watch  honey-bees  busy  around  the  hive  of  a  summer  forenoon, 
Or  animals  feeding  in  the  fields, 
Or  birds,  or  the  wonderfulness  of  insects  in  the  air, 
Or  the  wonderfulness  of  the  sundown,  or  of  stars  shining  so  quiet 

and  bright, 

Or  the  exquisite  delicate  thin  curve  of  the  new  moon  in  spring ; 
These  with  the  rest,  one  and  all,  are  to  me  miracles, 
The  whole  referring,  yet  each  distinct  and  in  its  place. 

To  me  every  hour  of  the  light  and  dark  is  a  miracle, 

Every  cubic  inch  of  space  is  a  miracle, 

Every  square  yard  of  the  surface  of  the  earth  is  spread  with  the 

same, 
.  Every  foot  of  the  interior  swarms  with  the  same. 

To  me  the  sea  is  a  continual  miracle, 

The  fishes  that  swim  —  the  rocks  —  the  motion  of  the  waves  — 

the  ships  with  men  in  them, 
What  stranger  miracles  are  there  ? 


SPARKLES   FROM   THE   WHEEL. 

WHERE  the  city's  ceaseless  crowd  moves  on  the  livelong  day, 
Withdrawn  I  join  a  group  of  children  watching,  I  pause  aside  with 
them. 

By  the  curb  toward  the  edge  of  the  flagging, 
A  knife-grinder  works  at  his  wheel  sharpening  a  great  knife, 
Bending  over  he  carefully  holds  it  to  the  stone,  by  foot  and  knee, 
With  measur'd  tread  he  turns  rapidly,  as  he  presses  with  light  but 
firm  hand, 


302  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Forth  issue  then  in  copious  golden  jets, 
Sparkles  from  the  wheel. 

The  scene  and  all  its  belongings,  how  they  seize  and  affect  me, 
The   sad  sharp-chinn'd   old  man  with  worn   clothes  and   broad 

shoulder-band  of  leather, 
Myself  effusing  and  fluid,  a  phantom  curiously  floating,  now  here 

absorb'd  and  arrested, 

The  group,  (an  unminded  point  set  in  a  vast  surrounding,) 
The  attentive,  quiet  children,  the  loud,  proud,  restive  base  of  the 

streets, 

The  low  hoarse  purr  of  the  whirling  stone,  the  light-press'd  blade, 
Diffusing,  dropping,  sideways-darting,  in  tiny  showers  of  gold, 
Sparkles  from  the  wheel. 

TO   A  PUPIL. 

Is  reform  needed  ?  is  it  through  you  ? 

The  greater  the  reform  needed,  the  greater  the  Personality  you 
need  to  accomplish  it. 

You  !  do  you  not  see  how  it  would  serve  to  have  eyes,  blood, 

complexion,  clean  and  sweet? 
Do  you  not  see  how  it  would  serve  to  have  such  a  body  and  soul 

that  when  you  enter  the  crowd  an  atmosphere  of  desire 

and  command  enters  with  you,  and  every  one  is  impress'd 

with  your  Personality  ? 

O  the  magnet !  the  flesh  over  and  over  ! 

Go,  dear  friend,  if  need  be  give  up  all  else,  and  commence  to-day 

to  inure  yourself  to  pluck,  reality,  self-esteem,  definiteness, 

elevatedness, 
Rest  not  till  you  rivet  and  publish  yourself  of  your  own  Personality. 


UNFOLDED  OUT  OF  THE  FOLDS. 

UNFOLDED  out  of  the  folds  of  the  woman  man  comes  unfolded, 

and  is  always  to  come  unfolded, 
Unfolded  only  out  of  the  superbest  woman  of  the  earth  is  to  come 

the  superbest  man  of  the  earth, 
Unfolded  out  of  the  friendliest  woman  is  to  come  the  friendliest 

man, 
Unfolded  only  out  of  the  perfect  body  of  a  woman  can  a  man  be 

form'd  of  perfect  body, 


AUTUMN  RIVULETS.  303 

Unfolded  only  out  of  the  inimitable  poems  of  woman  can  come 

the  poems  of  man,  (only  thence  have  my  poems  come ;) 
Unfolded   out  of  the   strong   and  arrogant  woman  I  love,  only 

thence  can  appear  the  strong  and  arrogant  man  I  love, 
Unfolded  by  brawny  embraces  from   the  well-muscled  woman  I 

love,  only  thence  come  the  brawny  embraces  of  the  man, 
Unfolded  out  of  the  folds  of  the  woman's  brain  come  all  the  folds 

of  the  man's  brain,  duly  obedient, 

Unfolded  out  of  the  justice  of  the  woman  all  justice  is  unfolded, 
Unfolded  out  of  the  sympathy  of  the  woman  is  all  sympathy ; 
A  man  is  a  great  thing  upon  the  earth  and  through  eternity,  but 

every  jot  of  the   greatness   of  man   is   unfolded   out   of 

woman ; 
First  the  man  is  shaped  in  the  woman,  he  can  then  be  shaped  in 

himself. 

WHAT   AM    I   AFTER   ALL. 

WHAT  am  I  after  all  but  a  child,  pleas'd  with  the  sound  of  my  own 

name  ?  repeating  it  over  and  over ; 
I  stand  apart  to  hear  —  it  never  tires  me. 

To  you  your  name  also ; 

Did  you  think  there  was  nothing  but  two  or  three  pronunciations 
in  the  sound  of  your  name  ? 


KOSMOS. 

WHO  includes  diversity  and  is  Nature, 

Who  is  the  amplitude  of  the  earth,  and  the  coarseness  and  sex 
uality  of  the  earth,  and  the  great  charity  of  the  earth,  and 
the  equilibrium  also, 

Who  has  not  look'd  forth  from  the  windows  the  eyes  for  nothing, 
or  whose  brain  held  audience  with  messengers  for  nothing, 

Who  contains  believers  and  disbelievers,  who  is  the  most  majestic 
lover, 

Who  holds  duly  his  or  her  triune  proportion  of  realism,  spiritualism, 
and  of  the  aesthetic  or  intellectual, 

Who  having  consider'd  the  body  finds  all  its  organs  and  parts 
good, 

Who,  out  of  the  theory  of  the  earth  and  of  his  or  her  body  under 
stands  by  subtle  analogies  all  other  theories, 

The  theory  of  a  city,  a  poem,  and  of  the  large  politics  of  these 
States ; 


304  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Who  believes  not  only  in  our  globe  with  its  sun  and  moon,  but  in 
other  globes  with  their  suns  and  moons, 

Who,  constructing  the  house  of  himself  or  herself,  not  for  a  day 
but  for  all  time,  sees  races,  eras,  dates,  generations, 

The  past,  the  future,  dwelling  there,  like  space,  inseparable  to 
gether. 


OTHERS    MAY   PRAISE   WHAT   THEY   LIKE. 

OTHERS  may  praise  what  they  like  ; 

But  I,  from  the  banks  of  the  running  Missouri,  praise  nothing  in 

art  or  aught  else, 
Till  it  has  well   inhaled  the   atmosphere  of  this   river,  also   the 

western  prairie-scent, 
And  exudes  it  all  again. 


WHO   LEARNS   MY  LESSON   COMPLETE? 

WHO  learns  my  lesson  complete  ? 

Boss,  journeyman,  apprentice,  churchman  and  atheist, 

The  stupid  and  the  wise  thinker,  parents  and  offspring,  merchant, 

clerk,  porter  and  customer, 

Editor,  author,  artist,  and  schoolboy  —  draw  nigh  and  commence  ; 
It  is  no  lesson  —  it  lets  down  the  bars  to  a  good  lesson, 
And  that  to  another,  and  every  one  to  another  still. 

The  great  laws  take  and  effuse  without  argument, 

I  am  of  the  same  style,  for  I  am  their  friend, 

I  love  them  quits  and  quits,  I  do  not  halt  and  make  salaams. 

I  lie  abstracted  and  hear  beautiful  tales  of  things  and  the  reasons 

of  things, 
They  are  so  beautiful  I  nudge  myself  to  listen. 

I  cannot  say  to  any  person  what  I  hear  —  I  cannot  say  it  to  myself 
—  it  is  very  wonderful. 

It  is  no  small  matter,  this  round  and  delicious  globe  moving  so 

exactly  in  its  orbit  for  ever  and  ever,  without  one  jolt  or  the 

untruth  of  a  single  second, 
'  I  do  not  think  it  was  made  in  six  days,  nor  in  ten  thousand  years, 

nor  ten  billions  of  years, 
Nor  plann'd  and  built  one  thing  after  another  as  an  architect 

plans  and  builds  a  house. 


I  do  not  think  seventy  years  is  the  time  of  a  man  or  woman, 
Nor  that  seventy  millions  of  years  Is  the  time  of  a  man  or  woman, 
Nor  that  years  will  ever  stop  the  existence  of  me,  or  any  one  else. 

Is  it  wonderful  that  I  should  be  immortal  ?  as  every  one  is  im 
mortal  ; 

I  know  it  is  wonderful,  but  my  eyesight  is  equally  wonderful,  and 
how  I  was  conceived  in  my  mother's  womb  is  equally 
wonderful, 

And  pass'd  from  a  babe  in  the  creeping  trance  of  a  couple  of 
summers  and  winters  to  articulate  and  walk  —  all  this  is 
equally  wonderful. 

And  that  my  soul  embraces  you  this  hour,  and  we  affect  each 
other  without  ever  seeing  each  other,  and  never  perhaps  to 
see  each  other,  is  every  bit  as  wonderful. 

And  that  I  can  think  such  thoughts  as  these  is  just  as  wonderful, 
And  that  I  can  remind  you,  and  you  think  them  and  know  them 
to  be  true,  is  just  as  wonderful. 

And  that  the  moon  spins  round  the  earth  and  on  with  the  earth,  is 

equally  wonderful, 
And  that  they  balance  themselves  with  the  sun  and  stars  is  equally 

wonderful. 

TESTS. 

ALL  submit  to  them  where  they  sit,  inner,  secure,  unapproachable 

to  analysis  in  the  soul, 

Not  traditions,  not  the  outer  authorities  are  the  judges, 
They  are  the  judges  of  outer  authorities  and  of  all  traditions, 
They  corroborate   as   they  go  only  whatever  corroborates  them 
selves,  and  touches  themselves ; 

For  all  that,  they  have  it  forever  in  themselves  to  corroborate  far 
and  near  without  one  exception. 


THE   TORCH. 

ON  my  Northwest  coast  in  the  midst  of  the  night  a  fishermen's 

group  stands  watching, 
Out  on  the  lake  that  expands  before  them,  others  are  spearing 

salmon, 

The  canoe,  a  dim  shadowy  thing,  moves  across  the  black  water, 
Bearing  a  torch  ablaze  at  the  prow. 


306  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

O   STAR   OF   FRANCE. 

1870-71. 

O  STAR  of  France, 

The  brightness  of  thy  hope  and  strength  and  fame, 
Like  some  proud  ship  that  led  the  fleet  so  long, 
Beseems  to-day  a  wreck  driven  by  the  gale,  a  mastless  hulk, 
And  'mid  its  teeming  madden'd  half-drown'd  crowds, 
Nor  helm  nor  helmsman. 

Dim  smitten  star, 

Orb  not  of  France  alone,  pale  symbol  of  my  soul,  its  dearest 
hopes, 

The  struggle  and  the  daring,  rage  divine  for  liberty, 

Of  aspirations  toward  the  far  ideal,  enthusiast's  dreams  of  brother 
hood, 

Of  terror  to  the  tyrant  and  the  priest. 

Star  crucified  —  by  traitors  sold, 

Star  panting  o'er  a  land  of  death,  heroic  land, 

Strange,  passionate,  mocking,  frivolous  land. 

Miserable  !  yet  for  thy  errors,  vanities,  sins,  I  will  not  now  rebuke 

thee, 

Thy  unexampled  woes  and  pangs  have  quell'd  them  all, 
And  left  thee  sacred. 

In  that  amid  thy  many  faults  thou  ever  aimedst  highly, 

In  that  thou  wouldst  not  really  sell  thyself  however  great  the  price, 

In  that  thou  surely  wakedst  weeping  from  thy  drugg'd  sleep, 

In  that  alone  among  thy  sisters  thou,  giantess,  didst  rend  the  ones 

that  shamed  thee, 

In  that  thou  couldst  not,  wouldst  not,  wear  the  usual  chains, 
This  cross,  thy  livid  face,  thy  pierced  hands  and  feet, 
The  spear  thrust  in  thy  side. 

O  star  !  O  ship  of  France,  beat  back  and  baffled  long  ! 
Bear  up  O  smitten  orb  !     O  ship  continue  on  ! 

Sure  as  the  ship  of  all,  the  Earth  itself, 
Product  of  deathly  fire  and  turbulent  chaos, 
Forth  from  its  spasms  of  fury  and  its  poisons, 
Issuing  at  last  in  perfect  power  and  beauty, 
Onward  beneath  the  sun  following  its  course, 
So  thee  O  ship  of  France  1 


A  UTUMN  RIVULETS.  3°7 


Finish'd  the  days,  the  clouds  dispel'd, 

The  travail  o'er,  the  long-sought  extrication, 

When  lo  !  reborn,  high  o'er  the  European  world, 

(In  gladness  answering  thence,  as  face  afar  to  face,  reflecting  ours 

Columbia,) 

Again  thy  star  O  France,  fair  lustrous  star, 
In  heavenly  peace,  clearer,  more  bright  than  ever, 
Shall  beam  immortal. 


THE   OX-TAMER. 

IN  a  far-away  northern  county  in  the  placid  pastoral  region, 
Lives  my  farmer  friend,  the  theme  of  my  recitative,  a  famous 

tamer  of  oxen, 
There  they  bring  him  the  three-year-olds  and  the  four-year-olds  to 

break  them, 
He  will  take  the  wildest  steer  in  the  world  and  break  him  and 

tame  him, 
He  will  go  fearless  without  any  whip  where  the  young  bullock 

chafes  up  and  down  the  yard, 

The  bullock's  head  tosses  restless  high  in  the  air  with  raging  eyes, 
Yet  see  you  !  how  soon  his  rage  subsides  —  how  soon  this  tamer 

tames  him ; 
See  you  !  on  the  farms  hereabout  a  hundred  oxen  young  and  old, 

and  he  is  the  man  who  has  tamed  them, 
They  all  know  him,  all  are  affectionate  to  him ; 
See  you  !  some  are  such  beautiful  animals,  so  lofty  looking ; 
Some  are  buff-color'd,  some  mottled,  one  has  a  white  line  running 

along  his  back,  some  are  brindled, 
Some   have  wide   flaring   horns    (a  good  sign)  —  see  you  !   the 

bright  hides, 
See,  the  two  with  stars  on  their  foreheads  —  see,  the  round  bodies 

and  broad  backs, 
How  straight  and  square  they  stand  on  their  legs  —  what  fine 

sagacious  eyes  ! 
How  they  watch  their  tamer  —  they  wish  him  near  them  —  how 

they  turn  to  look  after  him  ! 
What  yearning  expression  !  how  uneasy  they  are  when  he  moves 

away  from  them ; 
Now  I  marvel  what  it  can  be  he  appears  to  them,  (books,  politics, 

poems,  depart  —  all  else  departs,) 

I  confess  I  envy  only  his  fascination  —  my  silent,  illiterate  friend, 
Whom  a  hundred  oxen  love  there  in  his  life  on  farms, 
In  the  northern  county  far,  in  the  placid  pastoral  region. 


308  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

AN   OLD   MAN'S   THOUGHT   OF   SCHOOL. 
For  the  Inauguration  of  a  Public  School,  Cantden,  New  Jersey,  1874. 

AN  old  man's  thought  of  school, 

An  old  man  gathering  youthful  memories  and  blooms  that  youth 
itself  cannot. 

Now  only  do  I  know  you, 

O  fair  auroral  skies  —  O  morning  dew  upon  the  grass  ! 

And  these  I  see,  these  sparkling  eyes, 

These  stores  of  mystic  meaning,  these  young  lives, 

Building,  equipping  like  a  fleet  of  ships,  immortal  ships, 

Soon  to  sail  out  over  the  measureless  seas, 

On  the  soul's  voyage. 

Only  a  lot  of  boys  and  girls  ? 

Only  the  tiresome  spelling,  writing,  ciphering  classes  ? 

Only  a  public  school  ? 

Ah  more,  infinitely  more  ; 

(As  George  Fox  rais'd  his  warning  cry,  "  Is  it  this  pile  of  brick 

and  mortar,  these  dead  floors,  windows,  rails,  you  call  the 

church  ? 
Why  this  is  not  the  church  at  all  —  the  church  is  living,  ever  living 

souls.") 

And  you  America, 

Cast  you  the  real  reckoning  for  your  present? 

The  lights  and  shadows  of  your  future,  good  or  evil? 

To  girlhood,  boyhood  look,  the  teacher  and  the  school. 


WANDERING  AT   MORN. 

WANDERING  at  morn, 

Emerging  from  the  night  from  gloomy  thoughts,  thee  in  my 
thoughts, 

Yearning  for  thee  harmonious  Union  !  thee,  singing  bird  divine  ! 

Thee  coil'd  in  evil  times  my  country,  with  craft  and  black  dismay, 
with  every  meanness,  treason  thrust  upon  thee, 

This  common  marvel  I  beheld — the  parent  thrush  I  watch'd  feed 
ing  its  young, 

The  singing  thrush  whose  tones  of  joy  and  faith  ecstatic, 

Fail  not  to  certify  and  cheer  my  soul. 


AUTUMN  RIVULETS.  309 

There  ponder'd,  felt  I, 

If  worms,  snakes,  loathsome  grubs,  may  to  sweet  spiritual  songs 

be  turn'd, 

If  vermin  so  transposed,  so  used  and  bless'd  may  be, 
Then  may  I  trust  in  you,  your  fortunes,  days,  my  country ; 
Who  knows  but  these  may  be  the  lessons  fit  for  you  ? 
From  these  your  future  song  may  rise  with  joyous  trills, 
Destin'd  to  fill  the  world. 


ITALIAN   MUSIC   IN   DAKOTA. 

[lt  The  Seventeenth  —  the  finest  Regimental  Band  I  ever  heard""\ 

THROUGH  the  soft  evening  air  enwinding  all, 

Rocks,  woods,  fort,  cannon,  pacing  sentries,  endless  wilds, 

In  dulcet  streams,  in  flutes'  and  cornets'  notes, 

Electric,  pensive,  turbulent,  artificial, 

(Yet  strangely  fitting  even  here,  meanings  unknown  before, 

Subtler  than  ever,  more  harmony,  as  if  born  here,  related  here, 

Not  to  the  city's  fresco'd  rooms,  not  to  the  audience  of  the  opera 

house, 

Sounds,  echoes,  wandering  strains,  as  really  here  at  home, 
Sonnambula's  innocent  love,  trios  with  Normals  anguish, 
And  thy  ecstatic  chorus  Poliuto  ;) 
Ray'd  in  the  limpid  yellow  slanting  sundown, 
Music,  Italian  music  in  Dakota. 

While  Nature,  sovereign  of  this  gnarl'd  realm, 

Lurking  in  hidden  barbaric  grim  recesses, 

Acknowledging  rapport  however  far  remov'd, 

(As  some  old  root  or  soil  of  earth  its  last-born  flower  or  fruit,) 

Listens  well  pleas'd. 


WITH   ALL  THY  GIFTS. 

WITH  all  thy  gifts  America, 

Standing  secure,  rapidly  tending,  overlooking  the  world, 

Power,  wealth,  extent,  vouchsafed  to  thee  —  with  these  and  like 

of  these  vouchsafed  to  thee, 
What  if  one  gift  thou  lackest  ?  (the  ultimate  human  problem  never 

solving,) 
The  gift  of  perfect  women  fit  for  thee  —  what   if  that  gift  of  gifts 

thou  lackest? 
The  towering  feminine  of  thee?  the  beauty,  health,  completion, 

fit  for  thee  ? 
The  mothers  fit  for  thee?-  -• 


3IO  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

MY   PICTURE-GALLERY. 

IN  a  little  house  keep  I  pictures  suspended,  it  is  not  a  fix'd  house, 
It  is  round,  it  is  only  a  few  inches  from  one  side  to  the  other ; 
Yet  behold,  it  has  room  for  all  the  shows  of  the  world,  all  memo 
ries  ! 

Here  the  tableaus  of  life,  and  here  the  groupings  of  death ; 
Here,  do  you  know  this  ?  this  is  cicerone  himself, 
With  finger  rais'd  he  points  to  the  prodigal  pictures. 


THE   PRAIRIE   STATES. 

A  NEWER  garden  of  creation,  no  primal  solitude, 

Dense,  joyous,  modern,  populous  millions,  cities  and  farms, 

With  iron  interlaced,  composite,  tied,  many  in  one, 

By  all  the  world  contributed  —  freedom's  and  law's  and   thrift's 

society, 

The  crown  and  teeming  paradise,  so  far,  of  time's  accumulations, 
To  justify  the  past. 


PROUD  MUSIC  OF  THE  STORM. 

I 

PROUD  music  of  the  storm, 
Blast  that  careers  so  free,  whistling  across  the  prairies, 
Strong  hum  of  forest  tree-tops  —  wind  of  the  mountains, 
Personified  dim  shapes  —  you  hidden  orchestras, 
You  serenades  of  phantoms  with  instruments  alert, 
Blending  with  Nature's  rhythmus  all  the  tongues  of  nations ; 
You  chords  left  as  by  vast  composers  —  you  choruses, 
You  formless,  free,  religious  dances  —  you  from  the  Orient, 
You  undertone  of  rivers,  roar  of  pouring  cataracts, 
You  sounds  from  distant  guns  with  galloping  cavalry, 
Echoes  of  camps  with  all  the  different  bugle-calls, 
Trooping  tumultuous,  filling  the  midnight  late,  bending  me  power 
less, 
Entering  my  lonesome  slumber-chamber,  why  have  you  seiz'd  me  ? 


Come  forward  O  my  soul,  and  let  the  rest  retire, 
Listen,  lose  not,  it  is  toward  thee  they  tend, 
Parting  the  midnight,  entering  my  slumber-chamber, 
For  thee  they  sing  and  dance  O  soul. 


PROUD  Music  OF  THE  STORM.  311 

A  festival  song, 

The  duet  of  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride,  a  marriage-march, 
With  lips  of  love,  and  hearts  of  lovers  fill'd  to  the  brim  with  love, 
The  red-flush'd  cheeks  and  perfumes,  the  cortege  swarming  full  of 

friendly  faces  young  and  old, 
To  flutes'  clear  notes  and  sounding  harps'  cantabile. 

Now  loud  approaching  drums, 

Victoria  !  see'st  thou  in  powder-smoke  the  banners  torn  but  flying? 

the  rout  of  the  baffled? 
Hearest  those  shouts  of  a  conquering  army? 

(Ah  soul,  the  sobs  of  women,  the  wounded  groaning  in  agony, 
The  hiss  and  crackle  of  flames,  the  blacken'd  ruins,  the  embers 

of  cities, 
The  dirge  and  desolation  of  mankind.) 

Now  airs  antique  and  mediaeval  fill  me, 

I  see  and  hear  old  harpers  with  their  harps  at  Welsh  festivals, 

I  hear  the  minnesingers  singing  their  lays  of  love, 

I  hear  the  minstrels,  gleemen,  troubadours,  of  the  middle  ages. 

Now  the  great  organ  sounds, 

Tremulous,  while  underneath,  (as  the  hid  footholds  of  the  earth, 

On  which  arising  rest,  and  leaping  forth  depend, 

All  shapes  of  beauty,  grace  and  strength,  all  hues  we  know, 

Green  blades  of  grass  and  warbling  birds,  children  that  gambol 

and  play,  the  clouds  of  heaven  above,) 
The  strong  base  stands,  and  its  pulsations  intermits  not, 
Bathing,  supporting,  merging  all   the   rest,  maternity  of  all  the 

rest, 

And  with  it  every  instrument  in  multitudes, 
The  players  playing,  all  the  world's  musicians, 
The  solemn  hymns  and  masses  rousing  adoration, 
All  passionate  heart-chants,  sorrowful  appeals, 
The  measureless  sweet  vocalists  of  ages, 
And  for  their  solvent  setting  earth's  own  diapason, 
Of  winds  and  woods  and  mighty  ocean  waves, 
A  new  composite  orchestra,  binder  of  years  and  climes,  ten-fold 

renewer, 

As  of  the  far-back  days  the  poets  tell,  the  Paradiso, 
The  straying  thence,  the  separation  long,  but  now  the  wandering 

done, 

The  journey  done,  the  journeyman  come  home, 
And  man  and  art  with  Naturg  fused  again. 


312  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Tutti !  for  earth  and  heaven ; 

(The  Almighty  leader  now  for  once  has  signal'd  with  his  wand.) 

The  manly  strophe  of  the  husbands  of  the  world, 
And  all  the  wives  responding. 

The  tongues  of  violins, 

(I  think  O  tongues  ye  tell  this  heart,  that  cannot  tell  itself, 

This  brooding  yearning  heart,  that  cannot  tell  itself.) 

Ah  from  a  little  child, 

Thou  knowest  soul  how  to  me  all  sounds  became  music, 

My  mother's  voice  in  lullaby  or  hymn, 

(The  voice,  O  tender  voices,  memory's  loving  voices, 

Last  miracle  of  all,  O  dearest  mother's,  sister's,  voices ;) 

The  rain,  the  growing  corn,  the  breeze  among  the  long-leav'd  corn, 

The  measur'd  sea-surf  beating  on  the  sand, 

The  twittering  bird,  the  hawk's  sharp  scream, 

The  wild-fowl's  notes  at  night  as  flying  low  migrating  north  or 

south, 
The  psalm  in  the  country  church  or  mid  the  clustering  trees,  the 

open  air  camp-meeting, 

The  fiddler  in  the  tavern,  the  glee,  the  long-strung  sailor-song, 
The  lowing  cattle,  bleating  sheep,  the  crowing  cock  at  dawn. 

All  songs  of  current  lands  come  sounding  round  me, 
The  German  airs  of  friendship,  wine  and  love, 
Irish  ballads,  merry  jigs  and  dances,  English  warbles, 
Chansons  of  France,  Scotch  tunes,  and  o'er  the  rest, 
Italia's  peerless  compositions. 

Across  the  stage  with  pallor  on  her  face,  yet  lurid  passion, 
Stalks  Norma  brandishing  the  dagger  in  her  hand. 

I  see  poor  crazed  Lucia's  eyes'  unnatural  gleam, 
Her  hair  down  her  back  falls  loose  and  dishevel'd. 

I  see  where  Ernani  walking  the  bridal  garden, 

Amid  the  scent  of  night-roses,  radiant,  holding  his  bride  by  the 

hand, 
Hears  the  infernal  call,  the  death-pledge  of  the  horn. 

To  crossing  swords  and  gray  hairs  bared  to  heaven, 
The  clear  electric  base  and  baritone  of  the  world, 
The  trombone  duo,  Libertad  forever  ! 


PROUD  Music  OF  THE  STORM.  313 

From  Spanish  chestnut  trees'  dense  shade, 

By  old  and  heavy  convent  walls  a  wailing  song, 

Song  of  lost  love,  the  torch  of  youth  and  life  quench'd  in  despair, 

Song  of  the  dying  swan,  Fernando's  heart  is  breaking. 

Awaking  from  her  woes  at  last  retriev'd  Amina  sings, 

Copious  as  stars  and  glad  as  morning  light  the  torrents  of  her  joy. 

(The  teeming  lady  comes, 

The  lustrous  orb,  Venus  contralto,  the  blooming  mother, 

Sister  of  loftiest  gods,  Alboni's  self  I  hear.) 


I  hear  those  odes,  symphonies,  operas, 

I  hear  in  the    William   Tell  the  music  ol  an  arous'd  and  angry 

people, 

I  hear  Meyerbeer's  Huguenots,  the  Prophet,  or  Robert, 
Gounod's  Faust,  or  Mozart's  Don  yuan. 

I  hear  the  dance-music  of  all  nations, 

The  waltz,  some  delicious  measure,  lapsing,  bathing  me  in  bliss, 

The  bolero  to  tinkling  guitars  and  clattering  castanets. 

I  see  religious  dances  old  and  new, 

I  hear  the  sound  of  the  Hebrew  lyre, 

I  see  the  crusaders  marching  bearing  the  cross  on  high,  to  the 

martial  clang  of  cymbals, 
I  hear  dervishes  monotonously  chanting,  interspers'd  with  frantic 

shouts,  as  they  spin  around  turning  always  towards  Mecca, 
I  see  the  rapt  religious  dances  of  the  Persians  and  the  Arabs, 
Again,  at  Eleusis,  home  of  Ceres,  I  see  the  modern  Greeks  dancing, 
I  hear  them  clapping  their  hands  as  they  bend  their  bodies, 
I  hear  the  metrical  shuffling  of  their  feet. 

I   see   again   the   wild   old   Corybantian   dance,   the   performers 

wounding  each  other, 
I  see  the  Roman  youth  to  the  shrill  sound  of  flageolets  throwing 

and  catching  their  weapons, 
As  they  fall  on  their  knees  and  rise  again. 

I  hear  from  the  Mussulman  mosque  the  muezzin  calling, 

I  see  the  worshippers  within,  nor  form  nor  sermon,  argument  nor 

word, 
But  silent,  strange,  devout,  rais'd,  glowing  heads,  ecstatic  faces. 


314  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

I  hear  the  Egyptian  harp  of  many  strings, 

The  primitive  chants  of  the  Nile  boatmen, 

The  sacred  imperial  hymns  of  China, 

To  the  delicate  sounds  of  the  king,  (the  stricken  wood  and  stone,) 

Or  to  Hindu  flutes  and  the  fretting  twang  of  the  vina, 

A  band  of  bayaderes. 

5 

Now  Asia,  Africa  leave  me,  Europe  seizing  inflates  me, 

To  organs  huge  and  bands  I  hear  as  from  vast   concourses   of 

voices, 

Luther's  strong  hymn  Eine  feste  Burg  i$t  unser  Gott, 
Rossini's  Stabat  Mater  dolorosa, 
Or  floating  in  some  high   cathedral   dim  with   gorgeous   color'd 

windows, 
The  passionate  Agnus  Dei  or  Gloria  in  Excehis. 

Composers  !  mighty  maestros  ! 

And  you,  sweet  singers  of  old  lands,  soprani,  tenori,  bassi ! 

To  you  a  new  bard  caroling  in  the  West, 

Obeisant  sends  his  love. 

(Such  led  to  thee  O  soul, 

All  senses,  shows  and  objects,  lead  to  thee, 

But  now  it  seems  to  me  sound  leads  o'er  all  the  rest.) 

I  hear  the  annual  singing  of  the  children  in  St.  Paul's  cathedral. 
Or,  under  the  high  roof  of  some  colossal  hall,  the  symphonies, 

oratorios  of  Beethoven,  Handel,  or  Haydn, 
The  Creation  in  billows  of  godhood  laves  me. 

Give  me  to  hold  all  sounds,  (I  madly  struggling  cry,) 

Fill  me  with  all  the  voices  of  the  universe, 

Endow  me  with  their throbbings,  Nature's  also, 

The   tempests,  waters,  winds,  operas   and   chants,   marches   and 

dances, 
Utter,  pour  in,  for  I  would  take  them  all ! 


Then  I  woke  softly, 

And  pausing,  questioning  awhile  the  music  of  my  dream, 

And  questioning  all  those  reminiscences,  the  tempest  in  its  fury, 

And  all  the  songs  of  sopranos  and  tenors, 

And  those  rapt  oriental  dances  of  religious  fervor, 


PASSAGE  TO  INDIA.  315 


And  the  sweet  varied  instruments,  and  the  diapason  of  organs, 
And  all  the  artless  plaints  of  love  and  grief  and  death, 
I  said  to  my  silent  curious  soul  out  of  the  bed  of  the  slumber- 
chamber, 

Come,  for  I  have  found  the  clew  I  sought  so  long, 
Let  us  go  forth  refresh'd  amid  the  day, 
Cheerfully  tallying  life,  walking  the  world,  the  real, 
Nourish'd  henceforth  by  our  celestial  dream. 

And  I  said,  moreover, 

Haply  what  thou  hast  heard  O  soul  was  not  the  sound  of  winds, 

Nor  dream  of  raging  storm,  nor  sea-hawk's  flapping  wings  nor 

harsh  scream, 

Nor  vocalism  of  sun-bright  Italy, 
Nor  German  organ  majestic,  nor  vast  concourse  of  voices,  nor 

layers  of  harmonies, 
Nor  strophes   of  husbands   and  wives,  nor  sound  of  marching 

soldiers, 

Nor  flutes,  nor  harps,  nor  the  bugle-calls  of  camps, 
But  to  a  new  rhythmus  fitted  for  thee, 
Poems  bridging  the  way  from  Life  to  Death,  vaguely  wafted  in 

night  air,  uncaught,  unwritten, 
Which  let  us  go  forth  in  the  bold  day  and  write. 


PASSAGE  TO  INDIA. 

I 

CINGING  my  days, 

O  Singing  the  great  achievements  of  the  present, 

Singing  the  strong  light  works  of  engineers, 

Our  modern  wonders,  (the  antique  ponderous  Seven  outvied,) 

In  the  Old  World  the  east  the  Suez  canal, 

The  New  by  its  mighty  railroad  spann'd, 

The  seas  inlaid  with  eloquent  gentle  wires ; 

Yet  first  to  sound,  and  ever  sound,  the  cry  with  thee  O  soul, 

The  Past !  the  Past !  the  Past ! 

The  Past  —  the  dark  unfathom'd  retrospect ! 
The  teeming  gulf —  the  sleepers  and  the  shadows  1 
The  past  —  the  infinite  greatness  of  the  past  1 
For  what  is  the  present  after  all  but  a  growth  out  of  the  past  ? 
21 


316  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

(As  a  projectile  form'd,  impell'd,  passing  a  certain  line,  still  keeps 

on, 
So  the  present,  utterly  form'd,  impell'd  by  the  past.) 

2 

Passage  O  soul  to  India  ! 

Eclaircise  the  myths  Asiatic,  the  primitive  fables. 

Not  you  alone  proud  truths  of  the  world, 

Nor  you  alone  ye  facts  of  modern  science, 

But  myths  and  fables  of  eld,  Asia's,  Africa's  fables, 

The  far-darting  beams  of  the  spirit,  the  unloos'd  dreams, 

The  deep  diving  bibles  and  legends, 

The  daring  plots  of  the  poets,  the  elder  religions ; 

O  you  temples  fairer  than  lilies  pour'd  over  by  the  rising  sun  ! 

0  you  fables  spurning  the  known,  eluding  the  hold  of  the  known, 

mounting  to  heaven  ! 
You  lofty  and  dazzling  towers,  pinnacled,  red  as  roses,  burnish'c1 

with  gold ! 

Towers  of  fables  immortal  fashion'd  from  mortal  dreams  ! 
You  too  I  welcome  and  fully  the  same  as  the  rest ! 
You  too  with  joy  I  sing. 

Passage  to  India ! 

Lo,  soul,  seest  thou  not  God's  purpose  from  the  first  ? 

The  earth  to  be  spann'd,  connected  by  network, 

The  races,  neighbors,  to  marry  and  be  given  in  marriage, 

The  oceans  to  be  cross'd,  the  distant  brought  near, 

The  lands  to  be  welded  together. 

A  worship  new  I  sing, 

You  captains,  voyagers,  explorers,  yours, 

You  engineers,  you  architects,  machinists,  yours, 

You,  not  for  trade  or  transportation  only, 

But  in  God's  name,  and  for  thy  sake  O  soul. 

Passage  to  India ! 

Lo  soul  for  thee  of  tableaus  twain, 

1  see  in  one  the  Suez  canal  initiated,  open'd, 

I  see  the  procession  of  steamships,  the  Empress  Eugenie's  leading 

the  van, 
I  mark  from  on  deck  the  strange  landscape,  the  pure  sky,  the 

level  sand  in  the  distance, 

I  pass  swiftly  the  picturesque  groups,  the  workmen  gather'd, 
The  gigantic  dredging  machines* 


PASSAGE  TO  INDIA.  317 

In  one  again,  different,  (yet  thine,  all  thine,  O  soul,  the  same,) 

I  see  over  my  own  continent  the  Pacific  railroad  surmounting 
every  barrier, 

I  see  continual  trains  of  cars  winding  along  the  Platte  carrying 
freight  and  passengers, 

I  hear  the  locomotives  rushing  and  roaring,  and  the  shrill  steam- 
whistle, 

I  hear  the  echoes  reverberate  through  the  grandest  scenery  in  the 
world, 

I  cross  the  Laramie  plains,  I  note  the  rocks  in  grotesque  shapes, 
the  buttes, 

I  see  the  plentiful  larkspur  and  wild  onions,  the  barren,  colorless, 
sage-deserts, 

I  see  in  glimpses  afar  or  towering  immediately  above  me  the 
great  mountains,  I  see  the  Wind  river  and  the  Wahsatch 
mountains, 

I  see  the  Monument  mountain  and  the  Eagle's  Nest,  I  pass  the 
Promontory,  I  ascend  the  Nevadas, 

I  scan  the  noble  Elk  mountain  and  wind  around  its  base, 

I  see  the  Humboldt  range,  I  thread  the  valley  and  cross  the  river, 

I  see  the  clear  waters  of  lake  Tahoe,  I  see  forests  of  majestic 
pines, 

Or  crossing  the  great  desert,  the  alkaline  plains,  I  behold  enchant 
ing  mirages  of  waters  and  meadows, 

Marking  through  these  and  after  all,  in  duplicate  slender  lines, 

Bridging  the  three  or  four  thousand  miles  of  land  travel, 

Tying  the  Eastern  to  the  Western  sea, 

The  road  between  Europe  and  Asia. 

(Ah  Genoese  thy  dream  !  thy  dream  ! 
Centuries  after  thou  art  laid  in  thy  grave, 
The  shore  thou  foundest  verifies  thy  dream.) 

Passage  to  India ! 

Struggles  of  many  a  captain,  tales  of  many  a  sailor  dead, 
Over  my  mood  stealing  and  spreading  they  come, 
Like  clouds  and  cloudlets  in  the  unreach'd  sky. 

Along  all  history,  down  the  slopes, 

As  a  rivulet  running,  sinking  now,  and  now  again  to  -the  surface 

rising, 
A  ceaseless  thought,  a  varied  train  —  lo,  soul,  to  thee,  thy  sight, 

they  rise, 
The  plans,  the  voyages  again,  the  expeditions ; 


318  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Again  Vasco  de  Gama  sails  forth, 
Again  the  knowledge  gain'd,  the  mariner's  compass, 
Lands  found  and  nations  born,  thou  born  America, 
For  purpose  vast,  man's  long  probation  fill'd, 
Thou  rondure  of  the  world  at  last  accomplish'd. 

5 

O  vast  Rondure,  swimming  in  space, 
Cover'd  all  over  with  visible  power  and  beauty, 
Alternate  light  and  day  and  the  teeming  spiritual  darkness, 
Unspeakable   high  processions  of  sun   and  moon  and  countless 

stars  above, 

Below,  the  manifold  grass  and  waters,  animals,  mountains,  trees, 
With  inscrutable  purpose,  some  hidden  prophetic  intention, 
Now  first  it  seems  my  thought  begins  to  span  thee. 

Down  from  the  gardens  of  Asia  descending  radiating, 

Adam  and  Eve  appear,  then  their  myriad  progeny  after  them, 

Wandering,  yearning,  curious,  with  restless  explorations, 

With   questionings,  baffled,  formless,  feverish,  with   never-happy 

hearts, 
With  that  sad  incessant  refrain,  Wherefore  unsatisfied  soul?  and 

Whither  O  mocking  life  ? 

Ah  who  shall  soothe  these  feverish  children? 

Who  justify  these  restless  explorations? 

Who  speak  the  secret  of  impassive  earth? 

Who  bind  it  to  us  ?  what  is  this  separate  Nature  so  unnatural  ? 

What  is  this  earth  to  our  affections?  (unloving  earth,  without  a 

throb  to  answer  ours, 
Cold  earth,  the  place  of  graves.) 

Yet  soul  be  sure  the  first  intent  remains,  and  shall  be  carried  out, 
Perhaps  even  now  the  time  has  arrived. 

After  the  seas  are  all  cross'd,  (as  they  seem  already  cross'd,) 
After  the  great  captains   and  engineers  have  accomplish'd  their 

work, 
After  the   noble   inventors,  after  the   scientists,  the  chemist,  the 

geologist,  ethnologist, 

Finally  shall  come  the  poet  worthy  that  name, 
The  true  son  of  God  shall  come  singing  his  songs. 

Then  not  your  deeds  only  O  voyagers,  O  scientists  and  inventors, 
shall  be  justified,     .  .  _  _x 


PASSAGE  TO  INDIA.  319 

All  these  hearts  as  of  fretted  children  shall  be  sooth'd, 

All  affection  shall  be  fully  responded  to,  the  secret  shall  be  told, 

All  these  separations  and  gaps  shall  be  taken  up  and  hook'd  and 

link'd  together, 
The  whole  earth,  this  cold,  impassive,  voiceless  earth,  shall  be 

completely  justified, 
Trinitas  divine  shall  be  gloriously  accomplish'd  and  compacted  by 

the  true  son  of  God,  the  poet, 

(He  shall  indeed  pass  the  straits  and  conquer  the  mountains, 
He  shall  double  the  cape  of  Good  Hope  to  some  purpose,) 
Nature  and  Man  shall  be  disjoin'd  and  diffused  no  more, 
The  true  son  of  God  shall  absolutely  fuse  them. 


Year  at  whose  wide-flung  door  I  sing  ! 

Year  of  the  purpose  accomplish'd  ! 

Year  of  the  marriage  of  continents,  climates  and  oceans  ! 

(No  mere  doge  of  Venice  now  wedding  the  Adriatic,) 

I  see  O  year  in  you  the  vast  terraqueous  globe  given  and  giving 

all, 

Europe  to  Asia,  Africa  join'd,  and  they  to  the  New  World, 
The  lands,  geographies,  dancing  before  you,  holding  a  festival 

garland, 
As  brides  and  bridegrooms  hand  in  hand. 

Passage  to  India ! 

Cooling  airs  from  Caucasus  far,  soothing  cradle  of  man, 

The  river  Euphrates  flowing,  the  past  lit  up  again. 

Lo  soul,  the  retrospect  brought  forward, 
The  old,  most  populous,  wealthiest  of  earth's  lands, 
The  streams  of  the  Indus  and  the  Ganges  and  their  many  af 
fluents, 

(I  my  shores  of  America  walking  to-day  behold,  resuming  all,) 
The  tale  of  Alexander  on  his  warlike  marches  suddenly  dying, 
On  one  side  China  and  on  the  other  side  Persia  and  Arabia, 
To  the  south  the  great  seas  and  the  bay  of  Bengal, 
The  flowing  literatures,  tremendous  epics,  religions,  castes, 
Old  occult  Brahma  interminably  far  back,  the  tender  and  junior 

Buddha, 

Central  and  southern  empires  and  all  their  belongings,  possessors, 
The  wars  of  Tamerlane,  the  reign  of  Aurungzebe, 
The  traders,  rulers,  explorers,  Moslems,  Venetians,  Byzantium,  the 
Arabs,  Portuguese, 


32O  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

The  first  travelers  famous  yet,  Marco  Polo,  Batouta  the  Moor, 
Doubts  to  be  solv'd,  the  map  incognita,  blanks  to  be  fill'd, 
The  foot  of  man  unstay'd,  the  hands  never  at  rest, 
Thyself  O  soul  that  will  not  brook  a  challenge. 

The  mediaeval  navigators  rise  before  me, 

The  world  of  1492,  with  its  awaken'd  enterprise, 

Something  swelling  in  humanity  now  like  the  sap  of  the  earth  in 

spring, 
The  sunset  splendor  of  chivalry  declining. 

And  who  art  thou  sad  shade  ? 

Gigantic,  visionary,  thyself  a  visionary, 

With  majestic  limbs  and  pious  beaming  eyes, 

Spreading  around  with  every  look  of  thine  a  golden  world, 

Enhuing  it  with  gorgeous  hues. 

As  the  chief  histrion, 

Down  to  the  footlights  walks  in  some  great  scena, 

Dominating  the  rest  I  see  the  Admiral  himself, 

(History's  type  of  courage,  action,  faith,) 

Behold  him  sail  from  Palos  leading  his  little  fleet, 

His  voyage  behold,  his  return,  his  great  fame, 

His  misfortunes,  calumniators,  behold  him  a  prisoner,  chain'd, 

Behold  his  dejection,  poverty,  death. 

(Curious  in  time  I  stand,  noting  the  efforts  of  heroes, 

Is  the  deferment  long  ?  bitter  the  slander,  poverty,  death  ? 

Lies  the  seed  unreck'd  for  centuries  in  the  ground?   lo,  to  God'< 

due  occasion, 

Uprising  in  the  night,  it  sprouts,  blooms, 
And  fills  the  earth  with  use  and  beauty.) 


Passage  indeed  O  soul  to  primal  thought, 

Not  lands  and  seas  alone,  thy  own  clear  freshness, 

The  young  maturity  of  brood  and  bloom, 

To  realms  of  budding  bibles. 

O  soul,  repressless,  I  with  thee  and  thou  with  me, 

Thy  circumnavigation  of  the  world  begin, 

Of  man,  the  voyage  of  his  mind's  return, 

To  reason's  early  paradise, 

Back,  back  to  wisdom's  birth,  to  innocent  intuitions, 

Again  with  fair  creation. 


PASSAGE  TO  INDIA.  321 

8 

O  we  can  wait  no  longer, 

We  too  take  ship  O  soul, 

Joyous  we  too  launch  out  on  trackless  seas, 

Fearless  for  unknown  shores  on  waves  of  ecstasy  to  sail, 

Amid  the  wafting  winds,  (thou  pressing  me  to  thee,  I  thee  to  me, 

O  soul,) 

Caroling  free,  singing  our  song  of  God, 
Chanting  our  chant  of  pleasant  exploration. 

With  laugh  and  many  a  kiss, 

(Let  others  deprecate,  let  others  weep  for  sin,  remorse,  humilia 
tion,) 
O  soul  thou  pleasest  me,  I  thee. 

Ah  more  than  any  priest  O  soul  we  too  believe  hi  God, 
But  with  the  mystery  of  God  we  dare  not  dally. 

0  soul  thou  pleasest  me,  I  thee, 

Sailing  these  seas  or  on  the  hills,  or  waking  in  the  night, 
Thoughts,  silent  thoughts,  of  Time  and  Space  and  Death,  like 

waters  flowing, 

Bear  me  indeed  as  through  the  regions  infinite, 
Whose  air  I  breathe,  whose  ripples  hear,  lave  me  all  over, 
Bathe  me  O  God  in  thee,  mounting  to  thee, 

1  and  my  soul  to  range  in  range  of  thee. 

0  Thou  transcendent, 
Nameless,  the  fibre  and  the  breath, 

Light  of  the  light,  shedding  forth  universes,  thou  centre  of  them, 
Thou  mightier  centre  of  the  true,  the  good,  the  loving, 
Thou  moral,  spiritual  fountain  —  affection's  source  —  thou  reser 
voir, 

(O  pensive  soul  of  me  —  O  thirst  unsatisfied  —  waitest  not  there? 
Waitest  not  haply  for  us  somewhere  there  the  Comrade  perfect?) 
Thou  pulse  —  thou  motive  of  the  stars,  suns,  systems, 
That,  circling,  move  in  order,  safe,  harmonious, 
Athwart  the  shapeless  vastnesses  of  space, 

How  should  I  think,  how  breathe  a  single  breath,  how  speak,  if, 
out  of  myself, 

1  could  not  launch,  to  those,  superior  universes? 

Swiftly  I  shrivel  at  the  thought  of  God, 

At  Nature  and  its  wonders,  Time  and  Space  and  Death, 

But  that  I,  turning,  call  to  thee  O  soul,  thou  actual  Me, 


322  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

And  lo,  thou  gently  masterest  the  orbs, 
Thou  matest  Time,  smilest  content  at  Death, 
And  fillest,  swellest  full  the  vastnesses  of  Space. 

Greater  than  stars  or  suns, 

Bounding  O  soul  thou  journeyest  forth ; 

What  love  than  thine  and  ours  could  wider  amplify  ? 

What  aspirations,  wishes,  outvie  thine  and  ours  O  soul? 

What   dreams   of  the   ideal?  what   plans   of  purity,   perfection 

strength  ? 

What  cheerful  willingness  for  others'  sake  to  give  up  all  ? 
For  others'  sake  to  suffer  all  ? 

Reckoning  ahead  O  soul,  when  thou,  the  time  achiev'd, 
The  seas  all  cross'd,  weather'd  the  capes,  the  voyage  done, 
Surrounded,  copest,  frontest  God,  yieldest,  the  aim  attain'd, 
As  fill'd  with  friendship,  love  complete,  the  Elder  Brother  found, 
The  Younger  melts  in  fondness  in  his  arms. 

9 

Passage  to  more  than  India  ! 
Are  thy  wings  plumed  indeed  for  such  far  flights  ? 
O  soul,  voyagest  thou  indeed  on  voyages  like  those? 
Disportest  thou  on  waters  such  as  those  ? 
Soundest  below  the  Sanscrit  and  the  Vedas? 
Then  have  thy  bent  unleash'd. 

Passage  to  you,  your  shores,  ye  aged  fierce  enigmas  ! 
Passage  to  you,  to  mastership  of  you,  ye  strangling  problems  ! 
You,   strew'd  with   the   wrecks   of  skeletons,  that,  living,  never 
reach'd  you. 

Passage  to  more  than  India  ! 

O  secret  of  the  earth  and  sky  ! 

Of  you  O  waters  of  the  sea  !  O  winding  creeks  and  rivers  ! 

Of  you  O  woods  and  fields  !  of  you  strong  mountains  of  my  land  ! 

Of  you  O  prairies  !  of  you  gray  rocks  ! 

O  morning  red  !  O  clouds  !  O  rain  and  snows  ! 

O  day  and  night,  passage  to  you  ! 

O  sun  and  moon  and  all  you  stars  !  Sirius  and  Jupiter  ! 
Passage  to  you  ! 

Passage,  immediate  passage  !  the  blood  burns  in  my  veins  ! 
Away  O  soul !  hoist  instantly  the  anchor  ! 


PRAYER  OF  COLUMBUS.  323 

Cut  the  hawsers  —  haul  out  —  shake  out  every  sail ! 

Have  we  not  stood  here  like  trees  in  the  ground  long  enough  ? 

Have  we  not  grovel'd  here  long  enough,  eating  and  drinking  like 

mere  brutes? 
Have  we  not  darken'd  and  dazed  ourselves  with  books  long  enough  ? 

Sail  forth  —  steer  for  the  deep  waters  only, 
Reckless  O  soul,  exploring,  I  with  thee,  and  thou  with  me, 
For  we  are  bound  where  mariner  has  not  yet  dared  to  go, 
And  we  will  risk  the  ship,  ourselves  and  all. 

O  my  brave  soul ! 

O  farther  farther  sail ! 

O  daring  joy,  but  safe  !  are  they  not  all  the  seas  of  God? 

O  farther,  farther,  farther  sail ! 


PRAYER  OF  COLUMBUS. 

ABATTER'D,  wreck'd  old  man, 
Thrown  on  this  savage  shore,  far,  far  from  home, 
Pent  by  the  sea  and  dark  rebellious  brows,  twelve  dreary  months, 
Sore,  stiff  with  many  toils,  sicken'd  and  nigh  to  death, 
I  take  my  way  along  the  island's  edge, 
Venting  a  heavy  heart. 

I  am  too  full  of  woe  ! 

Haply  I  may  not  live  another  day ; 

I  cannot  rest  O  God,  I  cannot  eat  or  drink  or  sleep, 

Till  I  put  forth  myself,  my  prayer,  once  more  to  Thee, 

Breathe,  bathe  myself  once  more  in  Thee,  commune  with  Thee, 

Report  myself  once  more  to  Thee. 

Thou  knowest  my  years  entire,  my  life, 

My  long  and  crowded  life  of  active  work,  not  adoration  merely ; 

Thou  knowest  the  prayers  and  vigils  of  my  youth, 

Thou  knowest  my  manhood's  solemn  and  visionary  meditations, 

Thou  knowest  how  before  I  commenced  I  devoted  all  to  come  to 

Thee, 
Thou  knowest  I  have  in  age  ratified  all  those  vows  and  strictlj 

kept  them, 
Thou  knowest  I  have  not  once  lost  nor  faith  nor  ecstasy  in  Thee, 


324  LEAVES  OP  GRASS. 

In  shackles,  prison'd,  in  disgrace,  repining  not, 
Accepting  all  from  Thee,  as  duly  come  from  Thee. 

All  my  emprises  have  been  fill'd  with  Thee, 

My  speculations,  plans,  begun  and  carried  on  in  thoughts  of  Thee, 

Sailing  the  deep  or  journeying  the  land  for  Thee  ; 

Intentions,  purports,  aspirations  mine,  leaving  results  to  Thee. 

0  I  am  sure  they  really  came  from  Thee, 
The  urge,  the  ardor,  the  unconquerable  will, 

The  potent,  felt,  interior  command,  stronger  than  words, 

A  message  from  the  Heavens  whispering  to  me  even  in  sleep, 

These  sped  me  on. 

By  me  and  these  the  work  so  far  accomplished, 

By  me  earth's  elder  cloy'd  and  stifled  lands  uncloy'd,  unloosed, 

By  me  the  hemispheres  rounded  and  tied,  the  unknown  to  the  known. 

The  end  I  know  not,  it  is  all  in  Thee, 

Or  small  or  great  I  know  not  —  haply  what  broad  fields,  what  lands, 
Haply  the  brutish  measureless  human  undergrowth  I  know, 
Transplanted  there  may  rise  to  stature,  knowledge  worthy  Thee, 
Haply  the  swords  I  know  may  there  indeed  be  turn'd  to  reaping- 

tools, 
Haply  the  lifeless  cross  I  know,  Europe's  dead  cross,  may  bud  and 

blossom  there. 

One  effort  more,  my  altar  this  bleak  sand ; 

That  Thou  O  God  my  life  hast  lighted, 

With  ray  of  light,  steady,  ineffable,  vouchsafed  of  Thee, 

Light  rare  untellable,  lighting  the  very  light, 

Beyond  all  signs,  descriptions,  languages ; 

For  that  O  God,  be  it  my  latest  word,  here  on  my  knees, 

Old,  poor,  and  paralyzed,  I  thank  Thee. 

My  terminus  near, 

The  clouds  already  closing  in  upon  me, 

The  voyage  balk'd,  the  course  disputed,  lost, 

1  yield  my  ships  to  Thee. 

My  hands,  my  limbs  grow  nerveless, 

My  Drain  feels  rack'd,  bewilder'd, 

Let  the  old  timbers  part,  I  will  not  part, 

I  will  cling  fast  to  Thee,  O  God,  though  the  waves  buffet 

Thee,  Thee  at  least  I  know. 


THE  SLEEPERS.  32S 

Is  it  the  prophet's  thought  I  speak,  or  am  I  raving > 
What  do  I  know  of  life  ?  what  of  myself  ? 
I  know  not  even  my  own  work  past  or  present, 
Dim  ever-shifting  guesses  of  it  spread  before  me, 
Of  newer  better  worlds,  their  mighty  parturition, 
Mocking,  perplexing  me. 

And  these  things  I  see  suddenly,  what  mean  they? 
As  if  some  miracle,  some  hand  divine  unseaFd  my  eyes, 
Shadowy  vast  shapes  smile  through  the  air  and  sky, 
And  on  the  distant  waves  sail  countless  ships, 
And  anthems  in  new  tongues  I  hear  saluting  me. 


THE  SLEEPERS. 


I  WANDER  all  night  in  my  vision, 
Stepping  with  light  feet,  swiftly  and  noiselessly  stepping 

and  stopping, 

Bending  with  open  eyes  over  the  shut  eyes  of  sleepers, 
Wandering  and  confused,  lost  to  myself,  ill-assorted,  contradic 
tory, 
Pausing,  gazing,  bending,  and  stopping. 

How  solemn  they  look  there,  stretch'd  and  still, 

How  quiet  they  breathe,  the  little  children  in  their  cradles. 

The  wretched  features  of  ennuye*s,  the  white  features  of  corpses, 
the  livid  faces  of  drunkards,  the  sick-gray  faces  of  onanists, 

The  gash'd  bodies  on  battle-fields,  the  insane  in  their  strong-door'd 
rooms,  the  sacred  idiots,  the  new-born  emerging  from 
gates,  and  the  dying  emerging  from  gates, 

The  night  pervades  them  and  infolds  them. 

The  married  couple  sleep  calmly  in  their  bed,  he  with  his  palm  on 
the  hip  of  the  wife,  and  she  with  her  palm  on  the  hip  of 
the  husband, 

The  sisters  sleep  lovingly  side  by  side  in  their  bed, 

The  men  sleep  lovingly  side  by  side  in  theirs, 

And  the  mother  sleeps  with  her  little  child  carefully  wrapt 


326  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

The  blind  sleep,  and  the  deaf  and  dumb  sleep, 
The  prisoner  sleeps  well  in  the  prison,  the  runaway  son  sleeps, 
The  murderer  that  is  to  be  hung  next  day,  how  does  he  sleep? 
And  the  murder'd  person,  how  does  he  sleep? 

The  female  that  loves  unrequited  sleeps, 

And  the  male  that  loves  unrequited  sleeps, 

The  head  of  the  money-maker  that  plotted  all  day  sleeps, 

And  the  enraged  and  treacherous  dispositions,  all,  all  sleep. 

I  stand  in  the  dark  with  drooping  eyes  by  the  worst- suffering  and 

the  most  restless, 

I  pass  my  hands  soothingly  to  and  fro  a  few  inches  from  them, 
The  restless  sink  in  their  beds,  they  fitfully  sleep. 

Now  I  pierce  the  darkness,  new  beings  appear, 
The  earth  recedes  from  me  into  the  night, 

I  saw  that  it  was  beautiful,  and  I  see  that  what  is  not  the  earth  is 
beautiful. 

I  go  from  bedside  to  bedside,  I  sleep  close  with  the  other  sleepers 

each  in  turn, 

I  dream  in  my  dream  all  the  dreams  of  the  other  dreamers, 
And  I  become  the  other  dreamers. 

I  am  a  dance  —  play  up  there  !  the  fit  is  whirling  me  fast ! 

I  am  the  ever-laughing  —  it  is  new  moon  and  twilight, 

I  see  the  hiding  of  douceurs,  I  see  nimble  ghosts  whichever  way 

I  look, 
Cache  and  cache  again  deep  in  the  ground  and  sea,  and  where  it 

is  neither  ground  nor  sea. 

Well  do  they  do  their  jobs  those  journeymen  divine, 

Only  from  me  can  they  hide  nothing,  and  would  not  if  they  could, 

I  reckon  I  am  their  boss  and  they  make  me  a  pet  besides, 

And  surround  me  and  lead  me  and  run  ahead  when  I  walk, 

To  lift  their  cunning  covers  to  signify  me  with  stretch'd  arms,  and 

resume  the  way ; 
Onward  we  move,  a  gay  gang  of  blackguards  !  with  mirth-shouting 

music  and  wild-flapping  pennants  of  joy  ! 

I  am  the  actor,  the  actress,  the  voter,  the  politician, 
The  emigrant  and  the  exile,  the  criminal  that  stood  in  the  box, 
He  who  has  been  famous  and  he  who  shall  be  famous  after  to-day, 
The   stammerer,   the   well-form'd  person,  the   wasted  or  feeble 
person. 


T&E  SLEEPERS.  32; 

I  am  she  who  adorn'd  herself  and  folded  her  hair  expectantly. 
My  truant  lover  has  come,  and  it  is  dark. 

Double  yourself  and  receive  me  darkness, 

Receive  me  and  my  lover  too,  he  will  not  let  me  go  without 
him. 

I  roll  myself  upon  you  as  upon  a  bed,  I  resign  myself  to  the  dusk. 

He  whom  I  call  answers  me  and  takes  the  place  of  my  lover, 
He  rises  with  me  silently  from  the  bed. 

Darkness,  you  are  gentler  than  my  lover,  his  flesh  was  sweaty  and 

panting, 
I  feel  the  hot  moisture  yet  that  he  left  me. 

My  hands  are  spread  forth,  I  pass  them  in  all  directions, 

I  would  sound  up  the  shadowy  shore  to  which  you  are  journey  log, 

Be  careful  darkness  !  already  what  was  it  touch'd  me  ? 

I  thought  my  lover  had  gone,  else  darkness  and  he  are  one, 

I  hear  the  heart-beat,  I  follow,  I  fade  away. 


I  descend  my  western  course,  my  sinews  are  flaccid, 
Perfume  and  youth  course  through  me  and  I  am  their  wake. 

It  is  my  face  yellow  and  wrinkled  instead  of  the  old  woman's, 
I  sit  low  in  a  straw-bottom  chair  and  carefully  darn  my  grandson's 
stockings. 

It  is  I  too,  the  sleepless  widow  looking  out  on  the  winter  mid 
night, 
I  see  the  sparkles  of  starshine  on  the  icy  and  pallid  earth. 

A  shroud  I  see  and  I  am  the  shroud,  I  wrap  a  body  and  lie  in  the 

coffin, 
It  is  dark  here  under  ground,  it  is  not  evil  or  pain  here,  it  is  blank 

here,  for  reasons. 

(It  seems  to  me  that  every  thing  in  the  light  and  air  ought  to  be 

happy, 
Whoever  is  not  in  his  coffin  and  the  dark  grave  let  him  know  he 

has  enough.) 


328  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


3 

I  see  a  beautiful  gigantic  swimmer  swimming  naked  through  the 
eddies  of  the  sea, 

His  brown  hair  lies  close  and  even  to  his  head,  he  strikes  out  with 
courageous  arms,  he  urges  himself  with  his  legs, 

I  see  his  white  body,  I  see  his  undaunted  eyes, 

I  hate  the  swift-running  eddies  that  would  dash  him  head-fore 
most  on  the  rocks. 

What  are  you  doing  you  ruffianly  red-trickled  waves  ? 
Will  you  kill  the  courageous  giant?  will  you  kill  him  in  the  prime 
of  his  middle  age  ? 

Steady  and  long  he  struggles, 

He  is  baffled,  bang'd,  bruis'd,  he  holds  out  while  his  strength  holds 

out, 
The  slapping  eddies  are  spotted  with  his  blood,  they  bear  him 

away,  they  roll  him,  swing  him,  turn  him, 
His  beautiful  body  is  borne  in  the  circling  eddies,  it  is  continually 

bruis'd  on  rocks, 
Swiftly  and  out  of  sight  is  borne  the  brave  corpse. 

4 

I  turn  but  GO  not  extricate  myself, 

Confused,  a  past-reading,  another,  but  with  darkness  yet. 

The  beach  is  cut  by  the  razory  ice-wind,  the  wreck-guns  sound, 
The  tempest  lulls,  the  moon  comes  floundering  through  the  drifts. 

I  look  where  the  ship  helplessly  heads  end  on,  I  hear  the  burst  as 
she  strikes,  I  hear  the  howls  of  dismay,  they  grow  fainter 
and  fainter. 

I  cannot  aid  with  my  wringing  fingers, 

I  can  but  rush  to  the  surf  and  let  it  drench  me  and  freeze 
upon  me. 

I  search  with  the  crowd,  not  one  of  the  company  is  wash'd  to  us 

alive, 
In  the  morning  I  help  pick  up  the  dead  and  lay  them  in  rows  in 

a  barn. 

5 

Now  of  the  older  war-days,  the  defeat  at  Brooklyn, 
Washington  stands  inside  the  lines,  he  stands  on  the  intrench'd 

hills  amid  a  crowd  of  officers. 


THE  SLEEPERS.  329 

His  face  is  cold  and  damp,  he  cannot  repress  the  weeping  drops, 
He  lifts  the  glass  perpetually  to  his  eyes,  the  color  is  blanch'd  from 

his  cheeks, 
He  sees  the  slaughter  of  the  southern  braves  confided  to  him  by 

their  parents. 

The  same  at  last  and  at  last  when  peace  is  declared, 

He  stands  in  the  room  of  the  old  tavern,  the  well-belov'd  soldiers 

all  pass  through, 

The  officers  speechless  and  slow  draw  near  in  their  turns, 
The  chief  encircles  their  necks  with  his  arm  and  kisses  them  on 

the  cheek, 

He   kisses  lightly  the  wet  cheeks  one  after  another,  he  shakes 
hands  and  bids  good-by  to  the  army. 


Now  what  my  mother  told  me  one  day  as  we  sat  at  dinner 

together, 
Of  when  she  was  a  nearly  grown  girl  living  home  with  her  parents 

on  the  old  homestead. 

A  red  squaw  came  one  breakfast-time  to  the  old  homestead, 

On  her  back  she  carried  a  bundle  of  rushes  for  rush-bottoming 

chairs, 
Her  hair,  straight,  shiny,  coarse,  black,  profuse,  half-envelop'd  her 

face, 
Her  step  was  free  and  elastic,  and  her  voice  sounded  exquisitely 

as  she  spoke. 

My  mother  look'd  in  delight  and  amazement  at  the  stranger, 

She  look'd  at  the  freshness  of  her  tall-borne  face  and  full  and 

pliant  limbs, 

The  more  she  look'd  upon  her  she  loved  her, 
Never  before  had  she  seen  such  wonderful  beauty  and  purity, 
She  made  her  sit  on  a  bench  by  the  jamb  of  the  fireplace,  she 

cook'd  food  for  her, 
She  had  no  work  to  give  her,  but  she  gave  her  remembrance  and 

fondness. 

The  red  squaw  staid  all  the  forenoon,  and  toward  the  middle  of 

the  afternoon  she  went  away, 
O  my  mother  was  loth  to  have  her  go  away, 
All  the  week  she  thought  of  her,  she  watch'd  for  her  many  a 

month, 

She  remember'd  her  many  a  winter  and  many  a  summer, 
But  the  red  squaw  never  came  nor  was  heard  of  there  again. 


33O  LEA  YES  OF  GRASS. 


A  show  of  the  summer  softness  —  a  contact  of  something  unseen 

—  an  amour  of  the  light  and  air, 
I  am  jealous  and  overwhelm'd  with  friendliness, 
And  will  go  gallivant  with  the  light  and  air  myself. 

0  love  and  summer,  you  are  in  the  dreams  and  in  me, 

Autumn  and  winter  are  in  the  dreams,  the  farmer  goes  with  his 

thrift, 
The  droves  and  crops  increase,  the  barns  are  well-fiU'd. 

Elements  merge  in  the  night,  ships  make  tacks  in  the  dreams, 

The  sailor  sails,  the  exile  returns  home, 

The  fugitive  returns  unharm'd,  the  immigrant  is  back  beyond 
months  and  years, 

The  poor  Irishman  lives  in  the  simple  house  of  his  childhood 
with  the  well-known  neighbors  and  faces, 

They  warmly  welcome  him,  he  is  barefoot  again,  he  forgets  he  is 
well  off, 

The  Dutchman  voyages  home,  and  the  Scotchman  and  Welshman 
voyage  home,  and  the  native  of  the  Mediterranean  voy 
ages  home, 

To  every  port  of  England,  France,  Spain,  enter  well-fill'd  ships, 

The  Swiss  foots  it  toward  his  hills,  the  Prussian  goes  his  way,  the 
Hungarian  his  way,  and  the  Pole  his  way, 

The  Swede  returns,  and  the  Dane  and  Norwegian  return. 

The  homeward  bound  and  the  outward  bound, 

The  beautiful  lost  swimmer,  the  emmye",  the  onanist,  the  female 
that  loves  unrequited,  the  money-maker, 

The  actor  and  actress,  those  through  with  their  parts  and  those 
waiting  to  commence, 

The  affectionate  boy,  the  husband  and  wife,  the  voter,  the  nominee 
that  is  chosen  and  the  nominee  that  has  fail'd, 

The  great  already  known  and  the  great  any  time  after  to-day, 

The  stammerer,  the  sick,  the  perfect-form'd,  the  homely, 

The  criminal  that  stood  in  the  box,  the  judge  that  sat  and  sen 
tenced  him,  the  fluent  lawyers,  the  jury,  the  audience, 

The  laugher  and  weeper,  the  dancer,  the  midnight  widow,  the  red 
squaw, 

The  consumptive,  the  erysipalite,  the  idiot,  he  that  is  wrong'd, 

The  antipodes,  and  every  one  between  this  and  them  in  the  dark, 

1  swear  they  are  averaged  now  —  one  is  no  better  than  the  other, 
The  night  and  sleep  have  liken 'd  them  and  restored  them. 


THE  SLEEPERS.  331 


I  swear  they  are  all  beautiful, 

Every  one  that  sleeps  is  beautiful,  every  thing  in  the  dim  light  is 

beautiful, 
The  wildest  and  bloodiest  is  over,  and  all  is  peace. 

Peace  is  always  beautiful, 

The  myth  of  heaven  indicates  peace  and  night. 

The  myth  of  heaven  indicates  the  soul, 

The  soul  is  always  beautiful,  it  appears  more  or  it  appears  less,  it 

conies  or  it  lags  behind, 
It   comes  from   its  embower'd   garden   and   looks  pleasantly  on 

itself  and  encloses  the  world, 
Perfect  and  clean  the  genitals  previously  jetting,  and  perfect  and 

clean  the  womb  cohering, 
The  head  well-grown  proportion'd  and  plumb,  and  the  bowels  and 

joints  proportion'd  and  plumb. 

The  soul  is  always  beautiful, 

The  universe  is  duly  in  order,  every  thing  is  in  its  place, 

What  has  arrived  is  in  its  place  and  what  waits  shall  be  in  its  place, 

The  twisted  skull  waits,  the  watery  or  rotten  blood  waits, 

The  child  of  the  glutton  or  venerealee  waits  long,  and  the  child 

of  the  drunkard  waits  long,  and  the  drunkard  himself  waits 

long, 
The  sleepers  that  lived  and  died  wait,  the  far  advanced  are  to  go 

on  in  their  turns,  and  the  far  behind  are  to  come  on  in 

their  turns, 
The  diverse  shall  be  no  less  diverse,  but  they  shall  flow  and  unite 

—  they  unite  now. 

8 

The  sleepers  are  very  beautiful  as  they  lie  unclothed, 

They  flow  hand  in  hand  over  the  whole  earth  from  east  to  west  as 
they  lie  unclothed, 

The  Asiatic  and  African  are  hand  in  hand,  the    European  and 
American  are  hand  in  hand, 

Learn'd  and  unlearn'd  are  hand  in  hand,  and  male  and  female  are 
hand  in  hand, 

The  bare  arm  of  the  girl  crosses  the  bare  breast  of  her  lover,  they 
press  close  without  lust,  his  lips  press  her  neck, 

The  father  holds  his  grown  or  ungrown  son  in  his  arms  with  meas 
ureless  love,  and  the  son  holds  the  father  in  his  arms  with 
measureless  love, 
22 


332  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

The  white  hair  of  the  mother  shines  on  the  white  wrist  of  the 

daughter, 
The  breath  of  the  boy  goes  with  the  breath  of  the  man,  friend  is 

inarm'd  by  friend, 
The  scholar  kisses  the  teacher  and  the  teacher  kisses  the  scholar, 

the  wrong'd  is  made  right, 
The  call  of  the  slave  is  one  with  the  master's  call,  and  the  master 

salutes  the  slave, 
The  felon  steps  forth  from  the  prison,  the  insane  becomes  sane, 

the  suffering  of  sick  persons  is  reliev'd, 
The  sweatings  and  fevers  stop,  the  throat  that  was  unsound  is 

sound,  the  lungs  of  the  consumptive  are  resumed,  the  poor 

distress'd  head  is  free, 
The  joints   of  the   rheumatic   move   as   smoothly  as   ever,  and 

smoother  than  ever, 

Stiflings  and  passages  open,  the  paralyzed  become  supple, 
The  swelTd  and  convuls'd  and  congested  awake  to  themselves  in 

condition, 
They  pass  the  invigoration  of  the  night  and  the  chemistry  of  the 

night,  and  awake. 

I  too  pass  from  the  night, 

I  stay  a  while  away  O  night,  but  I  return  to  you  again  and  love  you. 

Why  should  I  be  afraid  to  trust  myself  to  you  ? 

I  am  not  afraid,  I  have  been  well  brought  forward  by  you, 

I  love  the  rich  running  day,  but  I  do  not  desert  her  in  whom  I  lay 

so  long, 
I  know  not  how  I  came  of  you  and  I  know  not  where  I  go  with 

you,  but  I  know  I  came  well  and  shall  go  well. 

I  will  stop  only  a  time  with  the  night,  and  rise  betimes, 

I  will  duly  pass  the  day  O  my  mother,  and  duly  return  to  you. 


TRANSPOSITIONS. 

LET  the  reformers  descend  from  the  stands  where  they  are  forever 
bawling  —  let  an  idiot  or  insane  person  appear  on  each  of 
the  stands ; 

Let  judges  and  criminals  be  transposed  —  let  the  prison-keepers  be 
put  in  prison  —  let  those  that  were  prisoners  take  the  keys ; 

Let  them  that  distrust  birth  and  death  lead  the  rest. 


To  THINK  OF  TIME.  333 


TO  THINK  OF  TIME. 


TO  think  of  time  —  of  all  that  retrospection, 
To  think  of  to-day,  and  the  ages  continued  henceforward. 

Have  you  guess'd  you  yourself  would  not  continue  ? 

Have  you  dreaded  these  earth-beetles  ? 

Have  you  fear'd  the  future  would  be  nothing  to  you  ? 

Is  to-day  nothing?  is  the  beginningless  past  nothing? 
If  the  future  is  nothing  they  are  just  as  surely  nothing. 

To  think  that  the  sun  rose  in  the  east  —  that  men  and  women 

were  flexible,  real,  alive  —  that  every  thing  was  alive, 
To  think  that  you  and  I  did  not  see,  feel,  think,  nor  bear  our  part, 
To  think  that  we  are  now  here  and  bear  our  part. 

2 

Not  a  day  passes,  not  a  minute  or  second  without  an  accouche 
ment, 
Not  a  day  passes,  not  a  minute  or  second  without  a  corpse. 

The  dull  nights  go  over  and  the  dull  days  also, 

The  soreness  of  lying  so  much  in  bed  goes  over, 

The  physician  after  long  putting  off  gives  the  silent  and  terrible 

look  for  an  answer, 
The  children  come  hurried  and  weeping,  and  the  brothers  and 

sisters  are  sent  for, 
Medicines  stand  unused  on  the  shelf,  (the  camphor-smell  has  long 

pervaded  the  rooms,) 
The  faithful  hand  of  the  living  does  not  desert  the  hand  of  the 

dying, 

The  twitching  lips  press  lightly  on  the  forehead  of  the  dying, 
The  breath  ceases  and  the  pulse  of  the  heart  ceases, 
The  corpse  stretches  on  the  bed  and  the  living  look  upon  it, 
It  is  palpable  as  the  living  are  palpable. 

The  living  look  upon  the  corpse  with  their  eyesight, 
But  without  eyesight  lingers  a  different  living  and  looks  curiously 
on  the  corpse. 

3 

To  think  the  thought  of  death  merged  in  the  thought  of  materials, 
To  think  of  all  these  wonders  of  city  and  country,  and  others  taking 
great  interest  in  them,  and  we  taking  no  interest  in  them. 


334  LEA  YES  OF  GRASS. 


To  think  how  eager  we  are  in  building  our  houses, 

To  think  others  shall  be  just  as  eager,  and  we  quite  indifferent. 

(I  see  one  building  the  house  that  serves  him  a  few  years,  01 

seventy  or  eighty  years  at  most, 
I  see  one  building  the  house  that  serves  him  longer  than  that.) 

Slow- moving  and  black  lines  creep  over  the  whole  earth  —  they 

never  cease  —  they  are  the  burial  lines, 
He  that  was  President  was  buried,  and  he  that  is  now  President 

shall  surely  be  buried. 

4 

A  reminiscence  of  the  vulgar  fate, 
A  frequent  sample  of  the  life  and  death  of  workmen, 
Each  after  his  kind. 

Cold  dash  of  waves  at  the  ferry-wharf,  posh  and  ice  in  the  river, 

half-frozen  mud  in  the  streets, 
A   gray   discouraged    sky   overhead,    the    short   last   daylight   of 

December, 
A  hearse  and  stages,  the  funeral  of  an  old  Broadway  stage-driver, 

the  cortege  mostly  drivers. 

Steady  the  trot  to  the  cemetery,  duly  rattles  the  death-bell, 

The  gate  is  pass'd,  the  new-dug  grave  is  halted  at,  the  living  alight, 

the  hearse  uncloses, 
The  coffin  is  pass'd  out,  lower'd  and  settled,  the  whip  is  laid  on 

the  coffin,  the  earth  is  swiftly  shovel'd  in, 
The  mound  above  is  flatted  with  the  spades  —  silence, 
A  minute  —  no  one  moves  or  speaks  —  it  is  done, 
He  is  decently  put  away  —  is  there  any  thing  more  ? 

He  was  a  good  fellow,  free-mouth'd,  quick-temper'd,  not  bad- 
looking,  f 

Ready  with  life  or  death  for  a  friend,  fond  of  women,  gambled, 
ate  hearty,  drank  hearty, 

Had  known  what  it  was  to  be  flush,  grew  low-spirited  toward  the 
last,  sicken'd,  was  help'd  by  a  contribution, 

Died,  aged  forty-one  years  —  and  that  was  his  funeral. 

Thumb  extended,  finger  uplifted,  apron,  cape,  gloves,  strap,  wet- 
weather  clothes,  whip  carefully  chosen, 

Boss,  spotter,  starter,  hostler,  somebody  loafing  on  you,  you  loafing 
on  somebody,  headway,  man  before  and  man  behind, 

Good  day's  work,  bad  day's  work,  pet  stock,  mean  stock,  first  out, 
last  out,  turning-in  at  night, 


To  THINK  OF  TIME.  335 

To  think  that  these  are  so  much  and  so  nigh  to  other  drivers,  and 
he  there  takes  no  interest  in  them. 

5 
The  markets,  the  government,  the  working-man's  wages,  to  think 

what  account  they  are  through  our  nights  and  days, 
To  think  that  other  working-men  will  make  just  as  great  account 

of  them,  yet  we  make  little  or  no  account. 

The  vulgar  and  the  refined,  what  you  call  sin  and  what  you  call 

goodness,  to  think  how  wide  a  difference, 
To  think  the  difference  will  still  continue  to  others,  yet  we  lie 

beyond  the  difference. 

To  think  how  much  pleasure  there  is, 

Do  you  enjoy  yourself  in  the  city?  or  engaged  in  business?  or 

planning  a  nomination  and  election  ?  or  with  your  wife  and 

family  ? 
Or  with  your  mother  and  sisters  ?  or  in  womanly  housework  ?  or 

the  beautiful  maternal  cares  ? 

These  also  flow  onward  to  others,  you  and  I  flow  onward, 
But  in  due  time  you  and  I  shall  take  less  interest  in  them. 

Your  farm,  profits,  crops  —  to  think  how  engross'd  you  are, 
To  think  there  will  still  be  farms,  profits,  crops,  yet  for  you  of 
what  avail? 

6 

What  will  be  will  be  well,  for  what  is  is  well, 

To  take  interest  is  well,  and  not  to  take  interest  shall  be  well. 

The  domestic  joys,  the  daily  housework  or  business,  the  building 

of  houses,  are   not  phantasms,  they   have   weight,  form, 

location, 
Farms,  profits,  crops,  markets,  wages,  government,  are  none  of 

them  phantasms, 

The  difference  between  sin  and  goodness  is  no  delusion, 
The  earth  is  not  an  echo,  man  and  his  life  and  all  the  things  of 

his  life  are  well-consider'd. 

You  are  not  thrown  to  the  winds,  you  gather  certainly  and  safely 

around  yourself, 
Yourself !  yourself !  yourself,  for  ever  and  ever  ! 

7 

It  is  not  to  diffuse  you  that  you  were  born  of  your  mother  and 
father,  it  is  to  identify  you, 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


It  is  not  that  you  should  be  undecided,  but  that  you  should  be 

decided, 

Something  long  preparing  and  formless  is  arrived  and  form'd  in  you, 
You  are  henceforth  secure,  whatever  comes  or  goes. 

The  threads  that  were  spun  are  gather'd,  the  weft  crosses  the  warp, 
the  pattern  is  systematic. 

The  preparations  have  every  one  been  justified, 
The  orchestra  have  sufficiently  tuned  their  instruments,  the  baton 
has  given  the  signal. 

The  guest  that  was  coming,  he  waited  long,  he  is  now  housed, 
He  is  one  of  those  who  are  beautiful  and  happy,  he  is  one  of  those 
that  to  look  upon  and  be  with  is  enough. 

The  law  of  the  past  cannot  be  eluded, 
The  law  of  the  present  and  future  cannot  be  eluded, 
The  law  of  the  living  cannot  be  eluded,  it  is  eternal, 
The  law  of  promotion  and  transformation  cannot  be  eluded, 
The  law  of  heroes  and  good-doers  cannot  be  eluded, 
The  law  of  drunkards,  informers,  mean  persons,  not  one   iota 
thereof  can  be  eluded. 

8 

Slow  moving  and  black  lines  go  ceaselessly  over  the  earth, 
Northerner  goes  carried  and  Southerner  goes  carried,  and  they  on 

the  Atlantic  side  and  they  on  the  Pacific, 
And  they  between,  and  all  through  the  Mississippi  country,  and 

all  over  the  earth. 

The  great  masters  and  kosmos  are  well  as  they  go,  the  heroes  and 

good-doers  are  well, 
The  known  leaders  and  inventors  and  the  rich  owners  and  pious 

and  distinguish'd  may  be  well, 
But  there  is  more  account  than  that,  there  is  strict  account  of 

all. 

The  interminable  hordes   of  the   ignorant  and  wicked   are  not 

nothing, 

The  barbarians  of  Africa  and  Asia  are  not  nothing, 
The  perpetual  successions  of  shallow  people  are  not  nothing  as 

they  go. 

Of  and  in  all  these  things, 

I  have  dream'd  that  we  are  not  to  be  changed  so  much,  nor  the 
law  of  us  changed, 


To  THINK  OF  TIME.  337 

I  have  dream'd  that  heroes  and  good-doers  shall  be  under  the 

present  and  past  law, 
And  that  murderers,  drunkards,  liars,  shall  be  under  the  present 

and  past  law, 
For  I  have  dream'd  that  the  law  they  are  under  now  is  enough. 

And  I  have  dream'd  that  the  purpose  and  essence  of  the  known 

life,  the  transient, 
Is  to  form  and  decide  identity  for  the  unknown  life,  the  permanent. 

If  all  came  but  to  ashes  of  dung, 

If  maggots  and  rats  ended  us,  then  Alarum  !  for  we  are  betray'd, 

Then  indeed  suspicion  of  death. 

Do  you  suspect  death?  if  I  were  to  suspect  death  I  should  die 

now, 
Do  you  think   I  could  walk  pleasantly  and  well-suited   toward 

annihilation  ? 

Pleasantly  and  well-suited  I  walk, 

Whither  I  walk  I  cannot  define,  but  I  know  it  is  good, 

The  whole  universe  indicates  that  it  is  good, 

The  past  and  the  present  indicate  that  it  is  good. 

How  beautiful  and  perfect  are  the  animals  ! 

How  perfect  the  earth,  and  the  minutest  thing  upon  it ! 

What  is  called  good  is  perfect,  and  what  is  called  bad  is  just  as 

perfect, 
The  vegetables  and  minerals  are  all  perfect,  and  the  imponderable 

fluids  perfect ; 
Slowly  and  surely  they  have  pass'd  on  to  this,  and  slowly  and  surely 

they  yet  pass  on. 

9 

I  swear  I  think  now  that  every  thing  without  exception  has  an 

eternal  soul ! 
The  trees  have,  rooted  in  the  ground  !  the  weeds  of  the  sea  have  ! 

the  animals  ! 

I  swear  I  think  there  is  nothing  but  immortality  ! 

That  the  exquisite  scheme  is  for  it,  and  the  nebulous  float  is  for  it, 

and  the  cohering  is  for  it ! 
And  all  preparation  is  for  it  —  and  identity  is  for  it  —  and  life  and 

materials  are  altogether  for  it ! 


33$  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


WHISPERS  OF   HEAVENLY 
DEATH. 


BAREST   THOU   NOW   O   SOUL. 

DAREST  thou  now  O  soul, 
Walk  out  with  me  toward  the  unknown  region, 
Where  neither  ground  is  for  the  feet  nor  any  path  to  follow  ? 

No  map  there,  nor  guide, 

Nor  voice  sounding,  nor  touch  of  human  hand, 

Nor  face  with  blooming  flesh,  nor  lips,  nor  eyes,  are  in  that  land. 

I  know  it  not  O  soul, 

Nor  dost  thou,  all  is  a  blank  before  us, 

All  waits  undream 'd  of  in  that  region,  that  inaccessible  land. 

Till  when  the  ties  loosen, 

All  but  the  ties  eternal,  Time  and  Space, 

Nor  darkness,  gravitation,  sense,  nor  any  bounds  bounding  us. 

Then  we  burst  forth,  we  float, 
In  Time  and  Space  O  soul,  prepared  for  them, 
Equal,  equipt  at  last,  (O  joy !  O  fruit  of  all !)  them  to  fulfil  0 
soul. 


WHISPERS    OF   HEAVENLY   DEATH. 

WHISPERS  of  heavenly  death  murmur'd  I  hear, 
Labial  gossip  of  night,  sibilant  chorals, 

Footsteps  gently  ascending,  mystical  breezes  wafted  soft  and  low, 
Ripples  of  unseen  rivers,  tides  of  a  current  flowing,  forever  flowing, 
(Or  is  it  the  plashing  of  tears?  the  measureless  waters  of  human 
tears?) 

I  see,  just  see  skyward,  great  cloud-masses, 
Mournfully  slowly  they  roll,  silently  swelling  and  mixing, 
With  at  times  a  half-dimm'd  sadden'd  far-off  star, 
Appearing  and  disappearing. 

(Some  parturition  rather,  some  solemn  immortal  birth ; 
On  the  frontiers  to  eyes  impenetrable, 
Some  soul  is  passing  over.) 


WHISPERS  OF  HEAVENLY  DEATH.  339 

CHANTING   THE   SQUARE   DEIFIC 


CHANTING  the  square  deific,  out  of  the  One  advancing,  out  of  the 

sides, 

Out  of  the  old  and  new,  out  of  the  square  entirely  divine, 
Solid,  four-sided,  (all  the  sides  needed,)  from  this  side  Jehovah 

am  I, 

Old  Brahm  I,  and  I  Saturnius  am ; 
Not  Time  affects  me  —  I  am  Time,  old,  modern  as  any, 
Unpersuadable,  relentless,  executing  righteous  judgments, 
As  the  Earth,  the  Father,  the  brown  old  Kronos,  with  laws, 
Aged  beyond  computation,  yet  ever  new,  ever  with  those  mighty 

laws  rolling, 
Relentless   I   forgive  no  man  —  whoever  sins  dies  —  I  will  have 

that  man's  life ; 
Therefore  let  none  expect  mercy  —  have  the  seasons,  gravitation, 

the  appointed  days,  mercy?  no  more  have  I, 
But  as  the  seasons  and  gravitation,  and  as  all  the  appointed  days 

that  forgive  not, 
{ I  dispense  from  this  side  judgments  inexorable  without  the  least 

remorse. 


Consolator  most  mild,  the  promis'd  one  advancing, 

With  gentle  hand  extended,  the  mightier  God  am  I, 

Foretold  by  prophets  and  poets  in  their  most  rapt  prophecies  and 

poems, 
From  this  side,  lo  !  the  Lord  Christ  gazes  —  lo  !  Hermes  I  —  lo  ! 

mine  is  Hercules'  face, 

All  sorrow,  labor,  suffering,  I,  tallying  it,  absorb  in  myself, 
Many  times  have  I   been  rejected,  taunted,  put   in   prison,  and 

crucified,  and  many  times  shall  be  again, 
All  the  world  have  I  given  up  for  my  dear  brothers'  and  sisters' 

sake,  for  the  soul's  sake, 
Wending  my  way  through  the  homes  of  men,  rich  or  poor,  with 

the  kiss  of  affection, 
For  I  am  affection,  I  am  the  cheer-bringing  God,  with  hope  and 

all-enclosing  charity, 
With  indulgent  words  as  to  children,  with  fresh  and  sane  words, 

mine  only, 
Young  and  strong  I  pass  knowing  well  I  am  destin'd  myself  to  an 

early  death ; 
But  my  charity  has  no  death  —  my  wisdom  dies  not,  neither  early 

nor  late, 
And  my  sweet  love  bequeath'd  here  and  elsewhere  never  dies. 


34°'  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

3 

Aloof,  dissatisfied,  plotting  revolt, 

Comrade  of  criminals,  brother  of  slaves, 

Crafty,  despised,  a  drudge,  ignorant, 

With  sudra  face  and  worn  brow,  black,  but  in  the  depths  of  my 

heart,  proud  as  any, 

'i  Lifted  now  and  always  against  whoever  scorning  assumes  to  rule  me, 
Morose,  full  of  guile,  full  of  reminiscences,  brooding,  with  many 

wiles, 
(Though  it  was  thought  I  was  baffled  and  dispel'd,  and  my  wiles 

done,  but  that  will  never  be,) 
Defiant,  I,  Satan,  still  live,  still  utter  words,  in  new  lands   duly 

appearing,  (and  old  ones  also,) 

Permanent  here  from  my  side,  warlike,  equal  with  any,  real  as  any, 
Nor  time  nor  change  shall  ever  change  me  or  my  words. 

4 

Santa  Spirita,  breather,  life, 
Beyond  the  light,  lighter  than  light, 

Beyond  the  flames  of  hell,  joyous,  leaping  easily  above  hell, 
Beyond  Paradise,  perfumed  solely  with  mine  own  perfume, 
Including  all  life   on   earth,  touching,  including  God,  including 

Saviour  and  Satan, 
Ethereal,  pervading  all,  (for  without  me  what  were  all  ?  what  were 

God?) 
Essence  of  forms,  life  of  the  real  identities,  permanent,  positive, 

(namely  the  unseen,) 
Life  of  the  great  round  world,  the  sun  and  stars,  and  of  man, 

I,  the  general  soul, 

Here  the  square  finishing,  the  solid,  I  the  most  solid, 
Breathe  my  breath  also  through  these  songs. 


OF   HIM   I   LOVE   DAY  AND  NIGHT. 

OF  him  I  love  day  and  night  I  dream'd  I  heard  he  was  dead, 
And  I  dream'd  I  went  where  they  had  buried  him  I  love,  but  he 

was  not  in  that  place, 
And  I  dream'd  I  wander'd  searching  among  burial-places  to  find 

him, 

And  I  found  that  every  place  was  a  burial-place ; 
The  houses  full  of  life  were  equally  full  of  death,  (this  house  is 

now,) 
The  streets,  the  shipping,  the  places  of  amusement,  the  Chicago, 

Boston,  Philadelphia,  the  Mannahatta,  were  as  full  of  the 

dead  as  of  the  living, 


WHISPERS  OF  HEAVENLY  DEATH.  341 

And  fuller,  O  vastly  fuller  of  the  dead  than  of  the  living ; 

And  what  I  dream'd  I  will  henceforth  tell  to  every  person  and  age, 

And  I  stand  henceforth  bound  to  what  I  dream'd, 

And  now  I  am  willing  to  disregard  burial-places  and  dispense 
with  them, 

And  if  the  memorials  of  the  dead  were  put  up  indifferently  every 
where,  even  in  the  room  where  I  eat  or  sleep,  I  should  be 
satisfied, 

And  if  the  corpse  of  any  one  I  love,  or  if  my  own  corpse,  be 
duly  render'd  to  powder  and  pour'd  in  the  sea,  I  shall  be 
satisfied, 

Or  if  it  be  distributed  to  the  winds  I  shall  be  satisfied. 


YET,  YET,  YE   DOWNCAST   HOURS. 

YET,  yet,  ye  downcast  hours,  I  know  ye  also, 

Weights  of  lead,  how  ye  clog  and  cling  at  my  ankles, 

Earth  to  a  chamber  of  mourning  turns  —  I  hear  the  o'erweening, 

mocking  voice, 
Matter  is  conqueror —  matter,  triumphant  only,  continues  onward. 

Despairing  cries  float  ceaselessly  toward  me, 

The  call  of  my  nearest  lover,  putting  forth,  alarm'd,  uncertain, 

The  sea  I  am  quickly  to  sail,  come  tell  me, 

Come  tell  me  where  I  am  speeding,  tell  me  my  destination. 

I  understand  your  anguish,  but  I  cannot  help  you, 

I  approach,  hear,  behold,  the  sad  mouth,  the  look  out  of  the  eyes, 

your  mute  inquiry, 

Whither  I  go  from  the  bed  I  recline  on,  come  tell  me  ; 
Old  age,  alarm'd,  uncertain — a  young  woman's  voice,  appealing 

to  me  for  comfort ; 
A  young  man's  voice,  Shall  I  not  escape  ? 


AS   IF  A   PHANTOM   CARESS'D   ME. 

As  if  a  phantom  caress'd  me, 

I  thought  I  was  not  alone  walking  here  by  the  shore ; 

But  the  one  I  thought  was  with  me  as  now  I  walk  by  the  shore, 

the  one  I  loved  that  caress'd  me, 
As  I  lean  and  look  through  the  glimmering  light,  that  one  has 

utterly  disappear'd, 
And  those  appear  that  are  hateful  to  me  and  mock  me. 


342  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

ASSURANCES. 

I  NEED  no  assurances,  I  am  a  man  who  is  pre-occupied  of  his 
own  soul ; 

I  do  not  doubt  that  from  under  the  feet  and  beside  the  hands  and 
face  I  am  cognizant  of,  are  now  looking  faces  I  am  not 
cognizant  of,  calm  and  actual  faces, 

I  do  not  doubt  but  the  majesty  and  beauty  of  the  world  are  latent 
in  any  iota  of  the  world, 

I  do  not  doubt  I  am  limitless,  and  that  the  universes  are  limitless, 
in  vain  I  try  to  think  how  limitless, 

I  do  not  doubt  that  the  orbs  and  the  systems  of  orbs  play  their 
swift  sports  through  the  air  on  purpose,  and  that  I  shall  one 
day  be  eligible  to  do  as  much  as  they,  and  more,  than  they, 

I  do  not  doubt  that  temporary  affairs  keep  on  and  on  millions  of 
years, 

I  do  not-  doubt  interiors  have  their  interiors,  and  exteriors  have 
their  exteriors,  and  that  the  eyesight  has  another  eyesight, 
and  the  hearing  another  hearing,  and  the  voice  another 
voice, 

I  do  not  doubt  that  the  passionately-wept  deaths  of  young  men 
are  provided  for,  and  that  the  deaths  of  young  women  and 
the  deaths  of  little  children  are  provided  for, 

(Did  you  think  Life  was  so  well  provided  for,  and  Death,  the  pur 
port  of  all  Life,  is  not  well  provided  for?) 

I  do  not  doubt  that  wrecks  at  sea,  no  matter  what  the  horrors  of 
them,  no  matter  whose  wife,  child,  husband,  father,  lover, 
has  gone  down,  are  provided  for,  to  the  minutest  points, 

I  do  not  doubt  that  whatever  can  possibly  happen  anywhere  at 
any  time,  is  provided  for  in  the  inherences  of  things, 

I  do  not  think  Life  provides  for  all  and  for  Time  and  Space,  but  I 
believe  Heavenly  Death  provides  for  all. 


QUICKSAND   YEARS. 

QUICKSAND  years  that  whirl  me  I  know  not  whither, 

Your  schemes,  politics,  fail,  lines  give  way,  substances  mock  and 

elude  me, 
Only  the  theme  I  sing,  the  great  and  strong-possess'd  soul,  eludes 

not, 
One's-self  must  never  give  way  —  that  is  the  final  substance  — 

that  out  of  all  is  sure, 

Out  of  politics,  triumphs,  battles,  life,  what  at  last  finally  remains  ? 
UWhen  shows  break  up  what  but  One's-Self  is  sure  ? 


WHISPERS  OF  HEAVENLY  DEATH.  343 


THAT   MUSIC  ALWAYS   ROUND   ME. 

THAT  music  always  round  me,  unceasing,  unbeginning,  yet  long 

untaught  I  did  not  hear, 
But  now  the  chorus  I  hear  and  am  elated, 
A  tenor,  strong,  ascending  with  power  and  health,  with  glad  notes 

of  daybreak  I  hear, 
A  soprano  at  intervals  sailing  buoyantly  over  the  tops  of  immense 

waves, 
A  transparent  base  shuddering  lusciously  under  and  through  the 

universe, 
The  triumphant  tutti,  the  funeral  waitings  with  sweet  flutes  and 

violins,  all  these  I  fill  myself  with, 
I  hear  not  the  volumes  of  sound  merely,  I  am  moved  by  the 

exquisite  meanings, 

I  listen  to  the  different  voices  winding  in  and  out,  striving,  contend 
ing  with  fiery  vehemence  to  excel  each  other  in  emotion ; 
I  do  not  think  the  performers  know  themselves  —  but  now  I  think 

I  begin  to  know  them. 


WHAT   SHIP  PUZZLED   AT   SEA. 

WHAT  ship  puzzled  at  sea,  cons  for  the  true  reckoning  ? 

Or  coming  in,  to  avoid  the  bars  and  follow  the  channel  a  perfect 

pilot  needs  ? 

Here,  sailor  !  here,  ship  !  take  aboard  the  most  perfect  pilot, 
Whom,  in  a  little  boat,  putting  off  and  rowing,  I  hailing  you  offer. 


A   NOISELESS   PATIENT   SPIDER. 

A  NOISELESS  patient  spider, 

I  mark'd  where  on  a  little  promontory  it  stood  isolated, 

Mark'd  how  to  explore  the  vacant  vast  surrounding, 

It  launch'd  forth  filament,  filament,  filament,  out  of  itself, 

Ever  unreeling  them,  ever  tirelessly  speeding  them. 

And  you  O  my  soul  where  you  stand, 

Surrounded,  detached,  in  measureless  oceans  of  space, 

Ceaselessly  musing,  venturing,  throwing,  seeking  the  spheres  to 

connect  them, 
Till  the  bridge  you  will  need  be  form'd,  till  the  ductile  anchor 

hold, 
Till  the  gossamer  thread  you  fling  catch  somewhere,  O  my  soul. 


344  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


O   LIVING  ALWAYS,  ALWAYS   DYING. 

O  LIVING  always,  always  dying  ! 

O  the  burials  of  me  past  and  present, 

O  me  while  I  stride  ahead,  material,  visible,  imperious  as  ever ; 

O  me,  what   I  was  for  years,  now  dead,   (I   lament   not,  I   am 

content ;) 
O  to  disengage  myself  from  those  corpses  of  me,  which  I  turn 

and  look  at  where  I  cast  them, 
To  pass  on,  (O  living !   always  living !)    and  leave  the   corpses 

behind. 


TO   ONE   SHORTLY   TO   DIE. 

FROM  all  the  rest  I  single  out  you,  having  a  message  for  you, 
You  are  to  die  —  let  others  tell  you  what  they  please,  I  cannot 

prevaricate, 
I  am  exact  and  merciless,  but  I  love  you  —  there  is  no  escape  for 

you. 

Softly  I  lay  my  right  hand  upon  you,  you  just  feel  it, 
I  do  not  argue,  I  bend  my  head  close  and  half  envelop  it, 
I  sit  quietly  by,  I  remain  faithful, 
I  am  more  than  nurse,  more  than  parent  or  neighbor, 
I  absolve  you  from  all  except  yourself  spiritual  bodily,  that  is  eter 
nal,  you  yourself  will  surely  escape, 
The  corpse  you  will  leave  will  be  but  excrementitious. 

The  sun  bursts  through  in  unlooked-for  directions, 

Strong  thoughts  fill  you  and  confidence,  you  smile, 

You  forget  you  are  sick,  as  I  forget  you  are  sick, 

You  do  not  see  the  medicines,  you  do  not  mind  the  weeping 

friends,  I  am  with  you, 

I  exclude  others  from  you,  there  is  nothing  to  be  commiserated, 
I  do  not  commiserate,  I  congratulate  you. 


NIGHT  ON  THE  PRAIRIES. 

NIGHT  on  the  prairies, 

The  supper  is  over,  the  fire  on  the  ground  burns  low, 
The  wearied  emigrants  sleep,  wrapt  in  their  blankets ; 
I  walk  by  myself —  I  stand  and  look  at  the  stars,  which  I  think  now 
I  never  realized  before. 


WHISPERS  OF  HEAVENLY  DEATH.  34$ 


Now  I  absorb  immortality  and  peace, 
I  admire  death  and  test  propositions. 

How  plenteous  !  how  spiritual !  how  resume"  ! 
The  same  old  man  and  soul  —  the  same  old  aspirations,  and  the 
same  content. 

I  was  thinking  the  day  most  splendid  till  I  saw  what  the  not-day 

exhibited, 
I  was  thinking  this  globe  enough  till  there  sprang  out  so  noiseless 

around  me  myriads  of  other  globes. 

Now  while  the  great  thoughts  of  space  and  eternity  fill  me  I  will 

measure  myself  by  them, 
And   now  touch'd  with  the  lives  of  other  globes  arrived  as  far 

along  as  those  of  the  earth, 

Or  waiting  to  arrive,  or  pass'd  on  farther  than  those  of  the  earth, 
I  henceforth  no  more  ignore  them  than  I  ignore  my  own  life, 
Or  the  lives  of  the  earth  arrived  as  far  as  mine,  or  waiting  to  arrive. 

0  I  see  now  that  life  cannot  exhibit  all  to  me,  as  the  day  cannot, 

1  see  that  I  am  to  wait  for  what  will  be  exhibited  by  death. 


THOUGHT. 

As  I  sit  with  others  at  a  great  feast,  suddenly  while  the  music  is 

playing, 
To  my  mind,  (whence  it  comes  I  know  not,)  spectral  in  mist  of 

a  wreck  at  sea, 
Of  certain  ships,  how  they  sail  from  port  with  flying  streamers  and 

wafted  kisses,  and  that  is  the  last  of  them, 

Of  the  solemn  and  murky  mystery  about  the  fate  of  the  President, 
Of  the  flower  of  the  marine  science  of  fifty  generations  founder'd 

off  the  Northeast  coast  and  going  down  —  of  the  steamship 

Arctic  going  down, 
Of  the  veil'd  tableau  —  women  gather'd  together  on  deck,  pale, 

heroic,  waiting  the  moment  that  draws  so  close  —  O  the 

moment ! 
A  huge  sob  —  a  few  bubbles  —  the  white  foam  spirting  up  —  and 

then  the  women  gone, 
Sinking  there  while  the  passionless  wet   flows   on  —  and   I  now 

pondering,  Are  those  women  indeed  gone  ? 
Are  souls  drown'd  and  destroy'd  so? 
Is  only  matter  triumphant  ? 


346  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

THE   LAST   INVOCATION. 

AT  the  last,  tenderly, 

From  the  walls  of  the  powerful  fortress'd  house, 

From  the  clasp  of  the  knitted  locks,  from  the  keep  of  the  weft 

closed  doors, 
Let  me  be  wafted. 

Let  me  glide  noiselessly  forth ; 

With  the  key  of  softness  unlock  the  locks  —  with  a  whisper, 

Set  ope  the  doors  O  soul. 

Tenderly  —  be  not  impatient, 
(Strong  is  your  hold  O  mortal  flesh, 
Strong  is  your  hold  O  love.) 


AS   I   WATCH'D   THE   PLOUGHMAN   PLOUGHING. 

As  I  watch'd  the  ploughman  ploughing, 

Or  the  sower  sowing  in  the  fields,  or  the  harvester  harvesting, 

I  saw  there  too,  O  life  and  death,  your  analogies ; 

(Life,  life  is  the  tillage,  and  Death  is  the  harvest  according.) 


PENSIVE  AND   FALTERING. 

PENSIVE  and  faltering, 

The  words  the  Dead  I  write, 

For  living  are  the  Dead, 

(Haply  the  only  living,  only  real, 

And  I  the  apparition,  I  the  spectre.) 


THOU  MOTHER  WITH  THY  EQUAL 
BROOD. 


Mother  with  thy  equal  brood, 
Thou  varied  chain  of  different  States,  yet  one  identity  only, 
A  special  song  before  I  go  I'd  sing  o'er  all  the  rest, 
For  thee,  the  future. 


THOU  MOTHER  WITH  THY  EQUAL  BROOD.  347 

I'd  sow  a  seed  for  thee  of  endless  Nationality, 
I'd  fashion  thy  ensemble  including  body  and  soul, 
I'd  show  away  ahead  thy  real  Union,  and  how  it  may  be  accom- 
plish'd. 

The  paths  to  the  house  I  seek  to  make, 
But  leave  to  those  to  come  the  house  itself. 

Belief  I  sing,  and  preparation ; 

As  Life  and  Nature  are  not  great  with  reference  to  the  present 

only, 

But  greater  still  from  what  is  yet  to  come, 
Out  of  that  formula  for  thee  I  sing. 


As  a  strong  bird  on  pinions  free, 
Joyous,  the  amplest  spaces  heavenward  cleaving, 
Such  be  the  thought  I'd  think  of  thee  America, 
Such  be  the  recitative  I'd  bring  for  thee. 

The  conceits  of  the  poets  of  other  lands  I'd  bring  thee  not, 

Nor  the  compliments  that  have  served  their  turn  so  long, 

Nor  rhyme,  nor  the    classics,  nor  perfume   of  foreign  court   or 

indoor  library ; 
But  an  odor  I'd  bring  as  from  forests  of  pine  in  Maine,  or  breath 

of  an  Illinois  prairie, 
With  open  airs  of  Virginia  or  Georgia  or  Tennessee,  or  from  Texas 

uplands,  or  Florida's  glades, 
Or   the   Saguenay's    black   stream,  or  the  wide   blue  spread   of 

Huron, 

With  presentment  of  Yellowstone's  scenes,  or  Yosemite, 
And  murmuring  under,  pervading  all,  I'd  bring  the  rustling  sea- 
sound, 
That  endlessly  sounds  from  the  two  Great  Seas  of  the  world. 

And  for  thy  subtler  sense  subtler  refrains  dread  Mother, 

Preludes  of  intellect  tallying  these  and  thee,  mind-formulas  fitted 

for  thee,  real  and  sane  and  large  as  these  and  thee, 
Thou !    mounting   higher,    diving   deeper   than   we   knew,   thou 

transcendental  Union  ! 

By  thee  fact  to  be  justified,  blended  with  thought, 
Thought  of  man  justified,  blended  with  God, 
Through  thy  idea,  lo,  the  immortal  reality  ! 
Through  thy  reality,  lo,  the  immortal  idea  I 
23 


348  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


Brain  of  the  New  World,  what  a  task  is  thine, 

To  formulate  the  Modern  —  out  of  the  peerless  grandeur  of  th< 

modern, 

Out  of  thyself,  comprising  science,  to  recast  poems,  churches,  art 
(Recast,  may-be  discard  them,  end  them  —  may-be  their  work  i 

done,  who  knows?) 
By  vision,  hand,  conception,  on  the  background  of  the  might] 

past,  the  dead, 
To  limn  with  absolute  faith  the  mighty  living  present. 

And  yet  thou   living   present   brain,  heir  of  the  dead,  the   Old 

World  brain, 

Thou  that  lay  folded  like  an  unborn  babe  within  its  folds  so  long, 
Thou  carefully  prepared  by  it  so  long  —  haply  thou  but  unfoldest 

it,  only  maturest  it, 
It  to  eventuate  in  thee  —  the  essence  of  the  by-gone  time  contain'd 

in  thee, 
Its  poems,  churches,  arts,  unwitting  to  themselves,  destined  with 

reference  to  thee ; 

Thou  but  the  apples,  long,  long,  long  a-growing, 
The  fruit  of  all  the  Old  ripening  to-day  in  thee. 


^ail,  sail  thy  best,  ship  of  Democracy, 

Of  value  is  thy  freight,  'tis  not  the  Present  only, 

The  Past  is  also  stored  in  thee, 

Thou  holdest  not  the  venture  of  thyself  alone,  not  of  the  Western 

continent  alone, 
Earth's  resume  entire  floats  on  thy  keel  O  ship,  is  steadied  by  thy 

spars, 
With  thee  Time  voyages  in  trust,  the  antecedent  nations  sink  or 

swim  with  thee, 
With  all  their  ancient  struggles,  martyrs,  heroes,  epics,  wars,  thou 

bear'st  the  other  continents, 

Theirs,  theirs  as  much  as  thine,  the  destination-port  triumphant ; 
Steer  then  with  good  strong  hand  and  wary  eye  O  helmsman,  thou 

carriest  great  companions, 
Venerable  priestly  Asia  sails  this  day  with  thee, 
And  royal  feudal  Europe  sails  with  thee. 

5 

Beautiful  world  of  new  superber  birth  that  rises  to  my  eyes, 
Like  a  limitless  golden  cloud  filling  the  western  sky, 


THOU  MOTHER  WITH  THY  EQUAL  BROOD.  349 

Emblem  of  general  maternity  lifted  above  all, 

Sacred  shape  of  the  bearer  of  daughters  and  sons, 

Out  of  thy  teeming  womb  thy  giant  babes  in  ceaseless  procession 
issuing, 

Acceding  from  such  gestation,  taking  and  giving  continual  strength 
and  life, 

World  of  the  real  —  world  of  the  twain  in  one, 

World  of  the  soul,  born  by  the  world  of  the  real  alone,  led  to 
identity,  body,  by  it  alone. 

Yet  in  beginning  only,  incalculable  masses  of  composite  precious 
materials, 

By  history's  cycles  forwarded,  by  every  nation,  language,  hither 
sent, 

Ready,  collected  here,  a  freer,  vast,  electric  world,  to  be  con 
structed  here, 

(The  true  New  World,  the  world  of  orbic  science,  morals,  litera 
tures  to  come,) 

Thou  wonder  world  yet  undefined,  unform'd,  neither  do  I  define 
thee, 

How  can  I  pierce  the  impenetrable  blank  of  the  future  ? 

I  feel  thy  ominous  greatness  evil  as  well  as  good, 

I  watch  thee  advancing,  absorbing  the  present,  transcending  the 
past, 

I  see  thy  light  lighting,  and  thy  shadow  shadowing,  as  if  the 
entire  globe, 

But  I  do  not  undertake  to  define  thee,  hardly  to  comprehend  thee, 

I  but  thee  name,  thee  prophesy,  as  now, 

I  merely  thee  ejaculate  ! 

Thee  in  thy  future, 

Thee  in  thy  only  permanent  life,  career,  thy  own  unloosen'd  mind, 

thy  soaring  spirit, 
Thee  as  another  equally  needed  sun,  radiant,  ablaze,  swift-moving, 

fructifying  all, 
Thee    risen   in    potent   cheerfulness   and  joy,   in   endless   great 

hilarity, 
Scattering  for  good  the  cloud  that  hung  so  long,  that  weigh'd  so 

long  upon  the  mind  of  man, 

The  doubt,  suspicion,  dread,  of  gradual,  certain  decadence  of  man ; 
Thee  in  thy  larger,  saner  brood  of  female,  male  —  thee  in   thy 

athletes,  moral,  spiritual,  South,  North,  West,  East, 
(To  thy  immortal  breasts,  Mother  of  All,  thy  every  daughter,  son, 

endear'd  alike,  forever  equal,) 

Thee  in  thy  own  musicians,  singers,  artists,  unborn  yet,  but  cer 
tain, 


35°  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Thee  in  thy  moral  wealth  and  civilization,  (until  which  thy  proud. 

est  material  civilization  must  remain  in  vain,) 
Thee  in  thy  all- supply  ing,  all-enclosing  worship  —  thee  in  no  single 

bible,  saviour,  merely, 
Thy  saviours  countless,  latent  within  thyself,  thy  bibles  incessant 

within  thyself,  equal  to  any,  divine  as  any, 
(Thy  soaring  course  thee  formulating,  not  in  thy  two  great  wars, 

nor  in  thy  century's  visible  growth, 

But  far  more  in  these  leaves  and  chants,  thy  chants,  great  Mother  !) 
Thee  in  an  education  grown  of  thee,  in  teachers,  studies,  students, 

born  of  thee, 
Thee  in  thy  democratic  fetes  en-masse,  thy  high  original  festivals, 

operas,  lecturers,  preachers, 
Thee  in  thy  ultimata,  (the  preparations  only  now  completed,  the 

edifice  on  sure  foundations  tied,) 
Thee  in  thy  pinnacles,  intellect,  thought,  thy  topmost  rational  joys, 

thy  love  and  godlike  aspiration, 
In   thy  resplendent  coming  literati,  thy   full-lung'd   orators,  thy 

sacerdotal  bards,  kosmic  savans, 
These  !  these  in  thee,  (certain  to  come,)  to-day  I  prophesy. 


Land  tolerating  all,  accepting  all,  not  for  the  good  alone,  all  good 

for  thee, 

Land  in  the  realms  of  God  to  be  a  realm  unto  thyself, 
Under  the  rule  of  God  to  be  a  rule  unto  thyself. 

(Lo,  where  arise  three  peerless  stars, 

To  be  thy  natal  stars  my  country,  Ensemble,  Evolution,  Freedom, 

Set  in  the  sky  of  Law.) 

Land  of  unprecedented  faith,  God's  faith, 

Thy  soil,  thy  very  subsoil,  all  upheav'd, 

The  general  inner  earth  so  long  so  sedulously  draped  over,  now 

hence  for  what  it  is  boldly  laid  bare, 
Open'd  by  thee  to  heaven's  light  for  benefit  or  bale. 

Not  for  success  alone, 

Not  to  fair-sail  unintermitted  always, 

The  storm  shall  dash  thy  face,  the  murk  of  war  and  worse  than 
war  shall  cover  thee  all  over, 

(Wert  capable  of  war,  its  tug  and  trials  ?  be  capable  of  peace,  its 
trials, 

For  the  tug  and  mortal  strain  of  nations  come  at  last  in  prosper 
ous  peace,  not  war ;) 


THOU  MOTHER  WITH  THY  EQUAL  BROOD.  35 T 

In  many  a  smiling  mask  death  shall  approach  beguiling  thee,  them 

in  disease  shalt  swelter, 
The   livid   cancer   spread   its   hideous   claws,  clinging  upon  thy 

breasts,  seeking  to  strike  thee  deep  within, 
Consumption  of  the  worst,  moral  consumption,  shall  rouge   thy 

face  with  hectic, 
But  thou  shalt  face  thy  fortunes,  thy  diseases,  and  surmount  them 

all, 

Whatever  they  are  to-day  and  whatever  through  time  they  may  be, 
They  each  and  all  shall  lift  and  pass  away  and  cease  from  thee, 
While  thou,  Time's  spirals  rounding,  out  of  thyself,  thyself  still 

extricating,  fusing, 
Equable,  natural,  mystical  Union  thou,  (the  mortal  with  immortal 

blent,) 
Shalt  soar  toward  the  fulfilment  of  the  future,  the  spirit  of  the 

body  and  the  mind, 
The  soul,  its  destinies. 

The  soul,  its  destinies,  the  real  real, 

(Purport  of  all  these  apparitions  of  the  real  •) 

In  thee  America,  the  soul,  its  destinies, 

Thou  globe  of  globes  !  thou  wonder  nebulous  ! 

By  many  a  throe  of  heat  and  cold  convuls'd,   (by  these  thyself 

solidifying,) 

Thou  mental,  moral  orb  —  thou  New,  indeed  new,  Spiritual  World  I 
The  Present  holds  thee  not  —  for  such  vast  growth  as  thine, 
For  such  unparallel'd  flight  as  thine,  such  brood  as  thine, 
The  FUTURE  only  holds  thee  and  can  hold  thee. 


A   PAUMANOK  PICTURE. 

/o  boats  with  nets  lying  off  the  sea-beach,  quite  still, 
Ten  fishermen  waiting  —  they  discover  a  thick   school  of  moss- 
bonkers —  they  drop  the  join'd  seine-ends  in  the  water, 
ic  boats  separate  and  row  off,  each  on  its  rounding  course  to  the 

beach,  enclosing  the  mossbonkers, 
The  net  is  drawn  in  by  a  windlass  by  those  who  stop  ashore, 
Some  of  the  fishermen  lounge  in  their  boats,  others  stand  ankle- 
deep  in  the  water,  pois'd  on  strong  legs, 
The  boats  partly  drawn  up,  the  water  slapping  against  them, 
Strew'd  on  the  sand  in  heaps  and  windrows,  well  out  from  the 
water,  the  green-back'd  spotted  mossbonkers. 


352  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

FROM  NOON  TO  STARRY  NIGHT, 


THOU   ORB   ALOFT   FULL-DAZZLING. 

THOU  orb  aloft  full-dazzling !  thou  hot  October  noon  1 
Flooding  with  sheeny  light  the  gray  beach  sand, 
The  sibilant  near  sea  with  vistas  far  and  foam, 
And  tawny  streaks  and  shades  and  spreading  blue ; 

0  sun  of  noon  refulgent !  my  special  word  to  thee. 

Hear  me  illustrious  ! 

Thy  lover  me,  for  always  I  have  loved  thee, 

Even  as  basking  babe,  then  happy  boy  alone  by  some  wood  edge, 

thy  touching-distant  beams  enough, 
Or  man  matured,  or  young  or  old,  as  now  to  thee  I  launch  my 

invocation. 

(Thou  canst  not  with  thy  dumbness  me  deceive, 

1  know  before  the  fitting  man  all  Nature  yields, 

Though  answering  not  in  words,  the  skies,  trees,  hear  his  voice  — 

and  thou  O  sun, 
As  for  thy  throes,  thy  perturbations,  sudden  breaks  and  shafts  of 

flame  gigantic, 
I  understand  them,  I  know  those  flames,  those  perturbations  well.) 

Thou  that  with  fructifying  heat  and  light, 

O'er  myriad  farms,  o'er  lands  and  waters  North  and  South, 

O'er  Mississippi's  endless  course,  o'er  Texas'  grassy  plains,  Kana- 

da's  woods, 

O'er  all  the  globe  that  turns  its  face  to  thee  shining  in  space, 
Thou  that  impartially  infoldest  all,  not  only  continents,  seas, 
Thou  that  to  grapes  and  weeds  and  little  wild  flowers  givest  so 

liberally, 
Shed,  shed  thyself  on  mine  and  me,  with  but  a  fleeting  ray  out  of 

thy  million  millions, 
Strike  through  these  chants. 

Nor  only  launch  thy  subtle  dazzle  and  thy  strength  for  these, 
Prepare  the  later  afternoon  of  me  myself — prepare  my  lengthen 
ing  shadows, 
Prepare  my  starry  nights. 


FROM  NOON  TO  STARRY  NIGHT.  353 

FACES. 


SAUNTERING  the  pavement  or  riding  the  country  by-road,  lo,  such 
faces  ! 

Faces  of  friendship,  precision,  caution,  suavity,  ideality, 

The  spiritual-prescient  face,  the  always  welcome  common  benevo 
lent  face, 

The  face  of  the  singing  of  music,  the  grand  faces  of  natural  law 
yers  and  judges  broad  at  the  back-top, 

The  faces  of  hunters  and  fishers  bulged  at  the  brows,  the  shaved 
blanch'd  faces  of  orthodox  citizens, 

The  pure,  extravagant,  yearning,  questioning  artist's  face, 

The  ugly  face  of  some  beautiful  soul,  the  handsome  detested  or 
despised  face, 

The  sacred  faces  of  infants,  the  illuminated  face  of  the  mother  of 
many  children, 

The  face  of  an  amour,  the  face  of  veneration, 

The  face  as  of  a  dream,  the  face  of  an  immobile  rock, 

The  face  withdrawn  of  its  good  and  bad,  a  castrated  face, 

A  wild  hawk,  his  wings  clipp'd  by  the  clipper, 

A  stallion  that  yielded  at  last  to  the  thongs  and  knife  of  the  gelder. 

Sauntering  the  pavement  thus,  or  crossing  the  ceaseless  ferry,  faces 

and  faces  and  faces, 
I  see  them  and  complain  not,  and  am  content  with  all. 


Do  you  suppose  I  could  be  content  with  all  if  I  thought  them 
their  own  finale  ? 

This  now  is  too  lamentable  a  face  for  a  man, 

Some  abject  louse  asking  leave  to  be,  cringing  for  it, 

Some  milk-nosed  maggot  blessing  what  lets  it  wrig  to  its  hole. 

This  face  is  a  dog's  snout  sniffing  for  garbage, 
Snakes  nest  in  that  mouth,  I  hear  the  sibilant  threat. 

This  face  is  a  haze  more  chill  than  the  arctic  sea, 
Its  sleepy  and  wabbling  icebergs  crunch  as  they  go. 

This  is  a  face  of  bitter  herbs,  this  an  emetic,  they  need  no  label, 
And  more  of  the  drug-shelf,  laudanum,  caoutchouc,  or  hog's-lard 


354  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

This  face  is  an  epilepsy,  its  wordless  tongue  gives  out  the  unearthlj 

cry, 
Its  veins  down  the  neck  distend,  its  eyes  roll  till  they  show  nothing 

but  their  whites, 
Its  teeth  grit,  the  palms  of  the  hands  are  cut  by  the  turn'd-ir 

nails, 
The  man  falls  struggling  and  foaming  to  the  ground,  while  he 

speculates  well. 

This  face  is  bitten  by  vermin  and  worms, 

And  this  is  some  murderer's  knife  with  a  half-pull'd  scabbard. 

This  face  owes  to  the  sexton  his  dismalest  fee, 
An  unceasing  death-bell  tolls  there. 

3 

Features  of  my  equals  would  you  trick  me  with  your  creas'd  and 

cadaverous  march? 
Well,  you  cannot  trick  me. 

I  see  your  rounded  never-erased  flow, 

I  see  'neath  the  rims  of  your  haggard  and  mean  disguises. 

Splay  and  twist  as  you  like,  poke  with  the  tangling  fores  of  fishes 

or  rats, 
You'll  be  unmuzzled,  you  certainly  will. 

I  saw  the  face  of  the  most  smear'd  and  slobbering  idiot  they  had 

at  the  asylum, 

And  I  knew  for  my  consolation  what  they  knew  not, 
I  knew  of  the  agents  that  emptied  and  broke  my  brother, 
The  same  wait  to  clear  the  rubbish  from  the  fallen  tenement, 
And  I  shall  look  again  in  a  score  or  two  of  ages, 
And  I  shall  meet  the  real  landlord  perfect  and  unharm'd,  every 

inch  as  good  as  myself. 

4 

The  Lord  advances,  and  yet  advances, 

Always  the  shadow  in  front,  always  the  reach'd  hand  bringing  up 
the  laggards. 

Out  of  this  face  emerge  banners  and  horses  —  O  superb !  I  see 

what  is  coming, 

I  see  the  high  pioneer-caps,  see  staves  of  runners  clearing  the  way, 
I  hear  victorious  drums. 


FROM  NOON  TO  STARRY  NIGHT.  355 

This  face  is  a  life-boat, 

This  is  the  face  commanding  and  bearded,  it  asks  no  odds  of  the 

rest, 

This  face  is  flavor'd  fruit  ready  for  eating, 
This  face  of  a  healthy  honest  boy  is  the  programme  of  all  good. 

These  faces  bear  testimony  slumbering  or  awake, 
They  show  their  descent  from  the  Master  himself. 

Off  the  word  I  have  spoken  I  except  not  one  —  red,  white,  black, 

are  all  deific, 
In  each  house  is  the  ovum,  it  comes  forth  after  a  thousand  years. 

Spots  or  cracks  at  the  windows  do  not  disturb  me, 
Tall  and  sufficient  stand  behind  and  make  signs  to  me, 
I  read  the  promise  and  patiently  wait. 

This  is  a  full-grown  lily's  face, 

She  speaks  to  the  limber-hipp'd  man  near  the  garden  pickets, 

Come  here  she  blushingly  cries,  Come  nigh  to  me  limber-hipp' d 

man, 

Stand  at  my  side  till  I  lean  as  high  as  I  can  upon  you. 
Fill  me  with  albescent  honey,  bend  down  to  me. 
Rub   to   me   with  your  chafing   beard,  rub   to   my  breast  and 

shoulders. 

5 

The  old  face  of  the  mother  of  many  children, 
Whist !  I  am  fully  content. 

Lull'd  and  late  is  the  smoke  of  the  First-day  morning, 
It  hangs  low  over  the  rows  of  trees  by  the  fences, 
It  hangs  thin  by  the  sassafras  and  wild-cherry  and  cat-brier  under 
them. 

I  saw  the  rich  ladies  in  full  dress  at  the  soiree, 
I  heard  what  the  singers  were  singing  so  long, 
Heard  who  sprang  in  crimson  youth  from  the  white  froth  and  the 
water-blue. 

Behold  a  woman  ! 

She  looks  out  from  her  quaker  cap,  her  face  is  clearer  and  more 
beautiful  than  the  sky. 

She  sits  in  an  armchair  under  the  shaded  porch  of  the  farmhouse^ 
The  sun  just  shines  on  her  old  white  head. 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


Her  ample  gown  is  of  cream-hued  linen, 

Her  grandsons  raised  the  flax,  and  her  grand-daughters  spun  it 
with  the  distaff  and  the  wheel. 

The  melodious  character  of  the  earth, 

The  finish  beyond  which  philosophy  cannot  go  and  does  not  wish 

to  go, 
The  justified  mother  of  men. 


THE   MYSTIC   TRUMPETER. 


HARK,  some  wild  trumpeter,  some  strange  musician, 
Hovering  unseen  in  air,  vibrates  capricious  tunes  to-night. 

I  hear  thee  trumpeter,  listening  alert  I  catch  thy  notes, 
Now  pouring,  whirling  like  a  tempest  round  me, 
Now  low,  subdued,  now  in  the  distance  lost. 


Come  nearer  bodiless  one,  haply  in  thee  resounds 

Some  dead  composer,  haply  thy  pensive  life 

Was  fill'd  with  aspirations  high,  unform'd  ideals, 

Waves,  oceans  musical,  chaotically  surging, 

That  now  ecstatic  ghost,  close  to  me  bending,  thy  cornet  echoing, 

pealing, 

Gives  out  to  no  one's  ears  but  mine,  but  freely  gives  to  mine, 
That  I  may  thee  translate. 

3 

Blow  trumpeter  free  and  clear,  I  follow  thee, 

While  at  thy  liquid  prelude,  glad,  serene, 

The  fretting  world,  the  streets,  the  noisy  hours  of  day  withdraw, 

A  holy  calm  descends  like  dew  upon  me, 

I  walk  in  cool  refreshing  night  the  walks  of  Paradise, 

I  scent  the  grass,  the  moist  air  and  the  roses ; 

Thy   song    expands    my   numb'd    imbonded   spirit,   thou   freest, 

launchest  me, 
Floating  and  basking  upon  heaven's  lake. 


Blow  again  trumpeter  !  and  for  my  sensuous  eyes, 
Bring  the  old  pageants,  show  the  feudal  world. 


FROM  NOON  TO  STARRY  NIGHT.  357 

What  charm  thy  music  works  !  thou  makest  pass  before  me, 
Ladies  and  cavaliers  long  dead,  barons  are  in  their  castle  halls,  the 

troubadours  are  singing, 
Arm'd  knights  go  forth  to  redress  wrongs,  some  in  quest  of  the 

holy  Graal ; 
I  see  the  tournament,  I  see   the  contestants   incased   in   heavy 

armor  seated  on  stately  champing  horses, 
I  hear  the  shouts,  the  sounds  of  blows  and  smiting  steel ; 
I  see  the  Crusaders'  tumultuous  armies  —  hark,  how  the  cymbals 

clang, 
Lo,  where  the  monks  walk  in  advance,  bearing  the  cross  on  high. 

5 

Blow  again  trumpeter  !  and  for  thy  theme, 

Take  now  the  enclosing  theme  of  all,  the  solvent  and  the  setting, 
Love,  that  is  pulse  of  all,  the  sustenance  and  the  pang, 
The  heart  of  man  and  woman  all  for  love, 
No  other  theme  but  love  —  knitting,  enclosing,  all-diffusing  love. 

0  how  the  immortal  phantoms  crowd  around  me  ! 

1  see  the  vast  alembic  ever  working,  I  see  and  know  the  flames 

that  heat  the  world, 

The  glow,  the  blush,  the  beating  hearts  of  lovers, 
So   blissful  happy  some,  and  some  so  silent,  dark,  and  nigh  to 

death ; 
Love,  that  is  all  the  earth  to  lovers  —  love,  that  mocks  time  and 

space, 

Love,  that  is  day  and  night  —  love,  that  is  sun  and  moon  and  stars, 
Love,  that  is  crimson,  sumptuous,  sick  with  perfume, 
No  other  words  but  words  of  love,  no  other  thought  but  love. 

6 

Blow  again  trumpeter  —  conjure  war's  alarums. 

Swift  to  thy  spell  a  shuddering  hum  like  distant  thunder  rolls, 
Lo,  where  the  arm'd  men  hasten  — lo,  mid  the  clouds  of  dust  the 

glint  of  bayonets, 
I  see  the  grime-faced  cannoneers,  I  mark  the  rosy  flash  amid  the 

smoke,  I  hear  the  cracking  of  the  guns  j 
Nor  war  alone  —  thy  fearful  music-song,  wild  player,  brings  every 

sight  of  fear, 
The  deeds  of  ruthless  brigands,  rapine,  murder  —  I  hear  the  cries 

for  help  ! 
I  see  ships  foundering  at  sea,  I  behold  on  deck  and  below  deck 

the  terrible  tableaus. 


353  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


0  trumpeter,  methinks  I  am  myself  the  instrument  thou  playest, 
Thou  melt'st  my  heart,  my  brain  —  thou  movest,  drawest,  chan- 

gest  them  at  will ; 

And  now  thy  sullen  notes  send  darkness  through  me, 
Thou  takest  away  all  cheering  light,  all  hope, 

1  see  the  enslaved,  the  overthrown,  the  hurt,  the  opprest  of  the 

whole  earth, 
I   feel   the   measureless   shame   and   humiliation   of  my  race,  it 

becomes  all  mine, 
Mine  too  the  revenges  of  humanity,  the  wrongs  of  ages,  baffled 

feuds  and  hatreds, 

Utter  defeat  upon  me  weighs  —  all  lost  —  the  foe  victorious, 
(Yet  'mid  the  ruins  Pride  colossal  stands  unshaken  to  the  last, 
Endurance,  resolution  to  the  last.) 

8 

Now  trumpeter  for  thy  close, 

Vouchsafe  a  higher  strain  than  any  yet, 

Sing  to  my  soul,  renew  its  languishing  faith  and  hope, 

Rouse  up  my  slow  belief,  give  me  some  vision  of  the  future, 

Give  me  for  once  its  prophecy  and  joy. 

O  glad,  exulting,  culminating  song  ! 

A  vigor  more  than  earth's  is  in  thy  notes, 

Marches  of  victory  —  man  disenthrall  —  the  conqueror  at  last, 

Hymns  to  the  universal  God  from  universal  man  —  all  joy  ! 

A  reborn  race  appears  —  a  perfect  world,  all  joy  ! 

Women  and  men  in  wisdom  innocence  and  health  —  all  joy  ! 

Riotous  laughing  bacchanals  fill'd  with  joy  ! 

War,  sorrow,  suffering  gone  —  the  rank  earth   purged  —  nothing 

but  joy  left ! 

The  ocean  fill'd  with  joy  —  the  atmosphere  all  joy  ! 
Joy  !  joy  !  in  freedom,  worship,  love  !  joy  in  the  ecstasy  of  life  ! 
Enough  to  merely  be  !  enough  to  breathe  ! 
Joy  !  joy  !  all  over  joy  ! 


TO   A   LOCOMOTIVE   IN   WINTER. 

THEE  for  my  recitative, 

Thee  in  the  driving  storm  even  as  now,  the  snow,  the  winter-day 

declining, 
Thee  in  thy  panoply,  thy  measur'd  dual  throbbing  and  thy  beat 

convulsive, 


FROM  NOON  TO  STARRY  NIGHT.  359 

Thy  black  cylindric  body,  golden  brass  and  silvery  steel, 

Thy  ponderous  side-bars,  parallel  and  connecting  rods,  gyrating, 

shuttling  at  thy  sides, 
Thy  metrical,  now  swelling  pant  and  roar,  now  tapering  in  the 

distance, 

Thy  great  protruding  head-light  fix'd  in  front, 
Thy   long,   pale,   floating  vapor-pennants,   tinged    with    delicate 

purple, 

The  dense  and  murky  clouds  out-belching  from  thy  smoke-stack, 
Thy  knitted  frame,  thy  springs  and  valves,  the  tremulous  twinkle 

of  thy  wheels, 

Thy  train  of  cars  behind,  obedient,  merrily  following, 
Through  gale  or  calm,  now  swift,  now  slack,  yet  steadily  careering ; 
Type  of  the  modern  —  emblem  of  motion  and  power  —  pulse  of 

the  continent, 
For  once  come  serve  the  Muse  and  merge  in  verse,  even  as  here 

I  see  thee, 

With  storm  and  buffeting  gusts  of  wind  and  falling  snow, 
By  day  thy  warning  ringing  bell  to  sound  its  notes, 
By  night  thy  silent  signal  lamps  to  swing. 

Fierce-throated  beauty  ! 

Roll  through  my  chant  with  all  thy  lawless  music,  thy  swinging 
lamps  at  night, 

Thy  madly-whistled  laughter,  echoing,  rumbling  like  an  earth 
quake,  rousing  all, 

Law  of  thyself  complete,  thine  own  track  firmly  holding, 

(No  sweetness  debonair  of  tearful  harp  or  glib  piano  thine,) 

Thy  trills  of  shrieks  by  rocks  and  hills  return'd, 

Launch'd  o'er  the  prairies  wide,  across  the  lakes, 

To  the  free  skies  unpent  and  glad  and  strong. 


O  MAGNET-SOUTH. 


O 

• 

Ti 


O  MAGNET-SOUTH  !  O  glistening  perfumed  South  !  my  South  ! 

O  quick  mettle,  rich  blood,  impulse  and  love  !  good  and  evil !  O 

all  dear  to  me  ! 
O  dear  to  me  my  birth-things  —  all  moving  things  and  the  trees 

where  I  was  born  —  the  grains,  plants,  rivers, 
ear  to  me  my  own  slow  sluggish  rivers  where  they  flow,  distant, 

over  flats  of  silvery  sands  or  through  swamps, 
Dear   to   me   the   Roanoke,  the   Savannah,  the   Altamahaw,  the 

Pedee,  the  Tombigbee,  the   Santee,  the   Coosa  and   the 

Sabine, 


360  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


0  pensive,  far  away  wandering,  I  return  with  my  soul  to  haunt 

their  banks  again, 

Again  in  Florida  I  float  on  transparent  lakes,  I  float  on  the  Okee- 
chobee,  I  cross  the  hummock-land  or  through  pleasant 
openings  or  dense  forests, 

1  see  the  parrots  in  the  woods,  I  see  the  papaw-tree  and  the  blos 

soming  titi ; 
Again,  sailing  in  my  coaster  on  deck,  I  coast  off  Georgia,  I  coasl 

up  the  Carolinas, 
I  see  where  the  live-oak  is  growing,  I  see  where  the  yellow-pine, 

the  scented  bay-tree,  the  lemon  and  orange,  the  cypress, 

the  graceful  palmetto, 
I  pass  rude  sea-headlands  and  enter  Pamlico  sound  through  an 

inlet,  and  dart  my  vision  inland ; 

O  the  cotton  plant !  the  growing  fields  of  rice,  sugar,  hemp  ! 
The  cactus  guarded  with  thorns,  the  laurel-tree  with  large  white 

flowers, 
The   range   afar,   the   richness   and   barrenness,   the    old   woods 

charged  with  mistletoe  and  trailing  moss, 
The  piney  odor  and  the  gloom,  the  awful  natural  stillness,  (here 

in  these  dense  swamps  the  freebooter  carries  his  gun,  and 

the  fugitive  has  his  conceal'd  hut ;) 
O  the   strange   fascination   of  these   half-known   half-impassable 

swamps,  infested   by  reptiles,  resounding  with  the  bellow 

of  the  alligator,  the  sad  noises  of  the  night-owl  and  the 

wild-cat,  and  the  whirr  of  the  rattlesnake, 
The  mocking-bird,  the  American  mimic,  singing  all  the  forenoon, 

singing  through  the  moon-lit  night, 

The  humming-bird,  the  wild  turkey,  the  raccoon,  the  opossum ; 
A  Kentucky  corn-field,  the  tall,  graceful,  long-leav'd  corn,  slender, 

flapping,  bright  green,  with  tassels,  with  beautiful  ears  each 

well-sheath'd  in  its  husk ; 
O  my  heart !  O  tender  and  fierce  pangs,  I  can  stand  them  not,  I 

will  depart ; 

O  to  be  a  Virginian  where  I  grew  up  !  O  to  be  a  Carolinian  ! 
O  longings  irrepressible  !  O  I  will  go  back  to  old  Tennessee  and 

never  wander  more. 


MANNAHATTA. 

I  WAS  asking  for  something  specific  and  perfect  for  my  city, 
Whereupon  lo  !  upsprang  the  aboriginal  name. 

Now  I  see  what  there  is  in  a  name,  a  word,  liquid,  sane,  unruly, 
musical,  self-sufficient, 


FROM  NOON  TO  STARRY  NIGHT.  361 

I  see  that  the  word  of  my  city  is  that  word  from  of  old, 
Because  I  see  that  word  nested  in  nests  of  water-bays,  superb, 
Rich,  hemm'd  thick  all  around  with  sailships  and  steamships,  an 

island  sixteen  miles  long,  solid-founded, 
Numberless  crowded  streets,  high  growths  of  iron,  slender,  strong 

light,  splendidly  uprising  toward  clear  skies, 
Tides  swift  and  ample,  well-loved  by  me,  toward  sundown, 
The  flowing  sea-currents,  the  little  islands,  larger  adjoining  islands, 

the  heights,  the  villas, 
The  countless  masts,  the  white  shore-steamers,  the  lighters,  the 

ferry-boats,  the  black  sea-steamers  well-model'd, 
The  down-town  streets,  the  jobbers'  houses  of  business,  the  houses 

of  business  of  the  ship-merchants  and  money-brokers,  the 

river-streets, 

Immigrants  arriving,  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  in  a  week, 
The  carts  hauling  goods,  the  manly  race  of  drivers  of  horses,  the 

brown-faced  sailors, 
The  summer  air,  the  bright  sun  shining,  and  the  sailing  clouds 

aloft, 
The  winter  snows,  the  sleigh-bells,  the  broken  ice  in  the  river, 

passing  along  up  or  down  with  the  flood-tide  or  ebb-tide, 
The  mechanics  of  the  city,  the  masters,  well-form'd,  beautiful- 
faced,  looking  you  straight  in  the  eyes, 
Trottoirs  throng'd,  vehicles,  Broadway,  the  women,  the  shops  and 

shows, 
A  million   people  —  manners  free  and  superb  —  open  voices  — 

hospitality  —  the  most  courageous  and  friendly  young  men, 
City  of  hurried  and  sparkling  waters  !  city  of  spires  and  masts  ! 
City  nested  in  bays  !  my  city  ! 


ALL   IS   TRUTH. 


0  ME,  man  of  slack  faith  so  long, 
Standing  aloof,  denying  portions  so  long, 

Only  aware  to-day  of  compact  all-diffused  truth, 

Discovering  to-day  there  is  no  lie  or  form  of  lie,  and  can  be  none, 

but  grows  as  inevitably  upon  itself  as  the  truth  does  upon 

itself, 
Or  as  any  law  of  the  earth  or  any  natural  production  of  the  earth 

does. 

(This  is  curious  and  may  not  be  realized  immediately,  but  it  must 
be  realized, 

1  feel  in  myself  that  I  represent  falsehoods  equally  with  the  rest, 
And  that  the  universe  does.) 


362  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Where  has  fail'd  a  perfect  return  indifferent  of  lies  or  the  truth  ? 
Is  it  upon  the  ground,  or  in  water  or  fire  ?  or  in  the  spirit  of  man  ? 
or  in  the  meat  and  blood  ? 

Meditating  among  liars  and  retreating  sternly  into  myself,  I  see 
that  there  are  really  no  liars  or  lies  after  all, 

And  that  nothing  fails  its  perfect  return,  and  that  what  are  called 
lies  are  perfect  returns, 

And  that  each  thing  exactly  represents  itself  and  what  has  pre 
ceded  it, 

And  that  the  truth  includes  all,  and  is  compact  just  as  much  as 
space  is  compact, 

And  that  there  is  no  flaw  or  vacuum  in  the  amount  of  the  truth  — 
but  that  all  is  truth  without  exception ; 

And  henceforth  I  will  go  celebrate  any  thing  I  see  or  am, 

And  sing  and  laugh  and  deny  nothing. 


A   RIDDLE   SONG. 

THAT  which  eludes  this  verse  and  any  verse, 

Unheard  by  sharpest  ear,  unform'd  in  clearest  eye  or  cunningest 

mind, 

Nor  lore  nor  fame,  nor  happiness  nor  wealth, 
And  yet  the  pulse  of  every  heart  and  life  throughout  the  world 

incessantly, 

Which  you  and  I  and  all  pursuing  ever  ever  miss, 
Open  but  still  a  secret,  the  real  of  the  real,  an  illusion, 
Costless,  vouchsafed  to  each,  yet  never  man  the  owner, 
Which  poets  vainly  seek  to  put  in  rhyme,  historians  in  prose, 
Which  sculptor  never  chisel'd  yet,  nor  painter  painted, 
Which  vocalist  never  sung,  nor  orator  nor  actor  ever  utter'd, 
Invoking  here  and  now  I  challenge  for  my  song. 

Indifferently,  'mid  public,  private  haunts,  in  solitude, 

Behind  the  mountain  and  the  wood, 

Companion  of  the  city's  busiest  streets,  through  the  assemblage, 

It  and  its  radiations  constantly  glide. 

In  looks  of  fair  unconscious  babes, 

Or  strangely  in  the  coffin'd  dead, 

Or  show  of  breaking  dawn  or  stars  by  night, 

As  some  dissolving  delicate  film  of  dreams, 

Hiding  yet  lingering. 

Two  little  breaths  of  words  comprising  it, 

Two  words,  yet  all  from  first  to  last  comprised  in  it. 


FROM  NOON  TO  STARRY  NIGHT.  363 


How  ardently  for  it ! 

How  many  ships  have  sail'd  and  sunk  for  it ! 

How  many  travelers  started  from  their  homes  and  ne'er  return'd  ! 

How  much  of  genius  boldly  staked  and  lost  for  it ! 

What  countless  stores  of  beauty,  love,  ventur'd  for  it ! 

How  all  superbest  deeds  since  Time  began  are  traceable  to  it  — 

and  shall  be  to  the  end  ! 
How  all  heroic  martyrdoms  to  it ! 

How,  justified  by  it,  the  horrors,  evils,  battles  of  the  earth  ! 
How  the  bright  fascinating  lambent  flames  of  it,  in  every  age  and 

land,  have  drawn  men's  eyes, 
Rich  as  a  sunset  on  the  Norway  coast,  the  sky,  the  islands,  and  the 

cliffs, 
Or  midnight's  silent  glowing  northern  lights  unreachable. 

Haply  God's  riddle  it,  so  vague  and  yet  so  certain, 
The  soul  for  it,  and  all  the  visible  universe  for  it, 
And  heaven  at  last  for  it. 


EXCELSIOR. 

WHO  has  gone  farthest  ?  for  I  would  go  farther, 

And  who  has  been  just?  for  I  would  be  the  most  just  person  of 

the  earth, 

And  who  most  cautious?  for  I  would  be  more  cautious, 
And  who  has  been  happiest  ?  O  I  think  it  is  I  —  I  think  no  one 

was  ever  happier  than  I, 

And  who  has  lavish'd  all  ?  for  I  lavish  constantly  the  best  I  have, 
And  who  proudest?  for  I  think  I  have  reason  to  be  the  proudest 

son  alive  —  for  I  am  the  son  of  the  brawny  and  tall-topt 

city, 
And  who  has  been  bold  and  true  ?  for  I  would  be  the  boldest  and 

truest  being  of  the  universe, 
And  who  benevolent?  for  I  would  show  more  benevolence  than 

all  the  rest, 
And  who  has  receiv'd  the  love  of  the  most  friends  ?  for  I  know 

what  it  is  to  receive  the  passionate  love  of  many  friends, 
And  who  possesses  a  perfect  and  enamour'd  body?  for  I  do  not 

believe  any  one  possesses  a  more  perfect  or  enamour'd 

body  than  mine, 
And  who  thinks  the  amplest  thoughts  ?  for  I  would  surround  those 

thoughts, 

And  who  has  made  hymns  fit  for  the  earth?  for  I  am  mad  with  de 
vouring  ecstasy  to  make  joyous  hymns  for  the  whole  earth, 
24 


364  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


AH   POVERTIES,   WINCINGS,   AND   SULKY    RETREATS. 

AH  poverties,  wincings,  and  sulky  retreats, 

Ah  you  foes  that  in  conflict  have  overcome  me, 

(For  what  is  my  life  or  any  man's  life  but  a  conflict  with  foes,  the 

old,  the  incessant  war  ?) 

You  degradations,  you  tussle  with  passions  and  appetites, 
You  smarts  from  dissatisfied  friendships,  (ah  wounds  the  sharpest 

of  all !) 

You  toil  of  painful  and  choked  articulations,  you  meannesses, 
You  shallow  tongue-talks  at  tables,  (my  tongue  the  shallowest  of 

any;) 

You  broken  resolutions,  you  racking  angers,  you  smother'd  ennuis  ! 
Ah  think  not  you  finally  triumph,  my  real  self  has  yet  to  come 

forth, 

It  shall  yet  march  forth  o'ermastering,  till  all  lies  beneath  me, 
It  shall  yet  stand  up  the  soldier  of  ultimate  victory. 

THOUGHTS. 

OF  public  opinion, 

Of  a  calm  and  cool  fiat  sooner  or  later,  (how  impassive  !  how 
certain  and  final !) 

Of  the  President  with  pale  face  asking  secretly  to  himself,  What 
will  the  people  say  at  last? 

Of  the  frivolous  Judge  —  of  the  corrupt  Congressman,  Governor, 
Mayor  —  of  such  as  these  standing  helpless  and  exposed, 

Of  the  mumbling  and  screaming  priest,  (soon,  soon  deserted,) 

Of  the  lessening  year  by  year  of  venerableness,  and  of  the  dicta 
of  officers,  statutes,  pulpits,  schools, 

Of  the  rising  forever  taller  and  stronger  and  broader  of  the  intui 
tions  of  men  and  women,  and  of  Self-esteem  and  Per 
sonality  ; 

Of  the  true  New  World  —  of  the  Democracies  resplendent  en- 
masse, 

Of  the  conformity  of  politics,  armies,  navies,  to  them, 

Of  the  shining  sun  by  them  —  of  the  inherent  light,  greater  than 
the  rest, 

Of  the  envelopment  of  all  by  them,  and  the  effusion  of  all  from 
them. 

MEDIUMS. 

THEY  shall  arise  in  the  States, 

They  shall  report  Nature,  laws,  physiology,  and  happiness, 

They  shall  illustrate  Democracy  and  the  kosmos, 


FROM  NOON  TO  STARRY  NIGHT.  365 

They  shall  be  alimentive,  amative,  perceptive, 

They  shall  be  complete  women  and  men,  their  pose  brawny  and 

supple,  their  drink  water,  their  blood  clean  and  clear, 
They  shall  fully  enjoy  materialism  and  the  sight  of  products,  they 

shall  enjoy  the  sight  of  the  beef,  lumber,  bread-stuffs,  of 

Chicago  the  great  city, 
They  shall  train  themselves  to  go  in  public  to  become  orators  and 

oratresses, 
Strong  and  sweet  shall  their  tongues  be,  poems  and  materials  of 

poems  shall  come  from  their  lives,  they  shall  be  makers 

and  finders, 
Of  them  and  of  their  works  shall  emerge  divine  conveyers,  to 

convey  gospels, 
Characters,  events,  retrospections,  shall  be  convey'd  in  gospels, 

trees,  animals,  waters,  shall  be  convey'd, 
Death,  the  future,  the  invisible  faith,  shall  all  be  convey'd. 


WEAVE   IN,   MY   HARDY  LIFE. 

WEAVE  in,  weave  in,  my  hardy  life, 

Weave  yet  a  soldier  strong  and  full  for  great  campaigns  to  come, 

Weave  in  red  blood,  weave  sinews  in  like  ropes,  the  senses,  sight 

weave  in, 
Weave   lasting  sure,  weave   day  and   night  the   weft,  the  warp, 

incessant  weave,  tire  not, 
(We  know  not  what  the  use  O  life,  nor  know  the  aim,  the  end, 

nor  really  aught  we  know, 
But  know  the  work,  the  need  goes  on  and  shall  go  on,  the  death- 

envelop'd  march  of  peace  as  well  as  war  goes  on,) 
For  great  campaigns  of  peace  the  same  the  wiry  threads  to  weave, 
We  know  not  why  or  what,  yet  weave,  forever  weave. 


SPAIN,  1873-74- 

Our  of  the  murk  of  heaviest  clouds, 

Out  of  the  feudal  wrecks  and  heap'd-up  skeletons  of  kings, 

Out  of  that  old  entire  European  debris,  the  shatter'd  mummeries, 

Ruin'd  cathedrals,  crumble  of  palaces,  tombs  of  priests, 

Lo,  Freedom's  features   fresh  undimm'd  look   forth  —  the  same 

immortal  face  looks  forth ; 
(A  glimpse  as  of  thy  Mother's  face  Columbia, 
A  flash  significant  as  of  a  sword, 
Beaming  towards  thee.) 


366  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


Nor  think  we  forget  thee  maternal ; 

Lag'd'st  thou  so  long?  shall  the  clouds  close  again  upon  thee? 
Ah,  but  thou  hast  thyself  now  appear'd  to  us  —  we  know  thee, 
Thou  hast  given  us  a  sure  proof,  the  glimpse  of  thyself, 
Thou  waitest  there  as  everywhere  thy  time. 


BY  BROAD  POTOMAC'S  SHORE. 

BY  broad  Potomac's  shore,  again  old  tongue, 

(Still  uttering,  still  ejaculating,  canst  never  cease  this  babble  ?) 

Again  old  heart  so  gay,  again  to  you,  your  sense,  the  full  flush 

spring  returning, 
Again  the  freshness  and  the  odors,  again  Virginia's  summer  sky, 

pellucid  blue  and  silver, 
Again  the  forenoon  purple  of  the  hills, 
Again  the  deathless  grass,  so  noiseless  soft  and  green, 
Again  the  blood-red  roses  blooming. 

Perfume  this  book  of  mine  O  blood-red  roses  ! 

Lave  subtly  with  your  waters  every  line  Potomac  ! 

Give  me   of  you  O  spring,  before    I  close,  to   put   between  its 

pages  ! 

O  forenoon  purple  of  the  hills,  before  I  close,  of  you  ! 
O  deathless  grass,  of  you  ! 


FROM    FAR  DAKOTA'S    CAftONS. 

June  25,  1876. 

FROM  far  Dakota's  canons, 

Lands  of  the  wild  ravine,  the  dusky  Sioux,  the  lonesome  stretch, 

the  silence, 
Haply  to-day  a  mournful  wail,  haply  a  trumpet-note  for  heroes. 

The  battle-bulletin, 

The  Indian  ambuscade,  the  craft,  the  fatal  environment, 

The  cavalry  companies  fighting  to  the  last  in  sternest  heroism, 

In  the  midst  of  their  little  circle,  with  their  slaughter'd  horses  for 

breastworks, 
The  fall  of  Custer  and  all  his  officers  and  men. 

Continues  yet  the  old,  old  legend  of  our  race, 
The  loftiest  of  life  upheld  by  death, 
The  ancient  banner  perfectly  maintain'd, 
O  lesson  opportune,  O  how  I  welcome  thee  I 


FROM  NOON  TO  STARRY  NIGHT.  367 


As  sitting  in  dark  days, 

Lone,  sulky,  through  the  time's  thick  murk  looking  in  vain  for  light, 

for  hope, 

From  unsuspected  parts  a  fierce  and  momentary  proof, 
(The  sun  there  at  the  centre  though  conceal'd, 
Electric  life  forever  at  the  centre,) 
Breaks  forth  a  lightning  flash. 

Thou  of  the  tawny  flowing  hair  in  battle, 

I  erewhile  saw,  with  erect  head,  pressing  ever  in  front,  bearing  a 

bright  sword  in  thy  hand, 

Now  ending  well  in  death  the  splendid  fever  of  thy  deeds, 
(I  bring  no  dirge  for  it  or  thee,  I  bring  a  glad  triumphal  sonnet,) 
Desperate  and  glorious,  aye  in  defeat  most  desperate,  most  glorious, 
After  thy  many  battles  in  which  never  yielding  up  a  gun  or  a  color, 
Leaving  behind  thee  a  memory  sweet  to  soldiers, 
Thou  yieldest  up  thyself. 


OLD   WAR-DREAMS. 

IN  midnight  sleep  of  many  a  face  of  anguish, 

Of  the  look  at  first  of  the  mortally  wounded,  (of  that  indescribable 

look,) 

Of  the  dead  on  their  backs  with  arms  extended  wide, 
I  dream,  I  dream,  I  dream. 

Of  scenes  of  Nature,  fields  and  mountains, 

Of  skies  so  beauteous  after  a  storm,  and  at  night  the  moon  so 

unearthly  bright, 
Shining   sweetly,  shining   down,  where  we   dig  the  trenches  and 

gather  the  heaps, 

I  dream,  I  dream,  I  dream. 

Long  have  they  pass'd,  faces  and  trenches  and  fields, 

Where  through  the  carnage  I  moved  with  a  callous  composure, 

or  away  from  the  fallen, 

Onward  I  sped  at  the  time  —  but  now  of  their  forms  at  night, 
I  dream,  I  dream,  I  dream. 


THICK-SPRINKLED   BUNTING. 

THICK-SPRINKLED  bunting  !  flag  of  stars  ! 

Long  yet  your  road,  fateful  flag  —  long  yet  your  road,  and  lined 
with  bloody  deatht 


368  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

For  the  prize  I  see  at  issue  at  last  is  the  world, 

All  its  ships  and  shores  I  see  interwoven  with  your  threads  greedy 

banner ; 
Dream'd  again  the  flags  of  kings,  highest  borne,  to  flaunt  unrival'd? 

0  hasten  flag   of  man  —  O  with   sure  and  steady  step,  passing 

highest  flags  of  kings, 
Walk   supreme   to    the   heavens  mighty  symbol  —  run  up  above 

them  all, 
Flag  of  stars  !  thick-sprinkled  bunting  ! 

WHAT    BEST    I    SEE    IN    THEE. 
To  U.  S.  G.  returned  from  his  World's  Tour, 

WHAT  best  I  see  in  thee, 

Is  not  that  where  thou  mov'st  down  history's  great  highways, 

Ever  undimm'd  by  time  shoots  warlike  victory's  dazzle, 

Or  that  thou  sat'st  where  Washington  sat,  ruling  the  land  in  peace, 

Or   thou   the   man   whom   feudal   Europe  feted,  venerable   Asia 

swarm'd  upon, 

Who  walk'd  with  kings  with  even  pace  the  round  world's  prome 
nade ; 

But  that  in  foreign  lands,  in  all  thy  walks  with  kings, 
Those  prairie  sovereigns  of  the  West,  Kansas,  Missouri,  Illinois, 
Ohio's,  Indiana's  millions,  comrades,  farmers,  soldiers,  all  to  the 

front, 
Invisibly  with  thee  walking  with  kings  with  even  pace  the  round 

world's  promenade, 
Were  all  so  justified. 

SPIRIT   THAT   FORM'D   THIS   SCENE. 

Written  in  Platte  Canon,  Colorado. 

SPIRIT  that  form'd  this  scene. 

These  tumbled  rock-piles  grim  and  red, 

These  reckless  heaven-ambitious  peaks, 

These  gorges,  turbulent-clear  streams,  this  naked  freshness, 

These  formless  wild  arrays,  for  reasons  of  their  own, 

1  know  thee,  savage  spirit  —  we  have  communed  together, 
Mine  too  such  wild  arrays,  for  reasons  of  their  own ; 
Was't  charged  against  my  chants  they  had  forgotten  art  ? 
To  fuse  within  themselves  its  rules  precise  and  delicatesse  ? 
The   lyrist's   measur'd  beat,  the  wrought-out  temple's  grace  — 

column  and  polish'd  arch  forgot  ? 

But  thou  that  revelest  here  —  spirit  that  form'd  this  scene, 
They  have  remember'd  thee. 


FROM  NOON  TO  STARRY  NIGHT.  369 


AS   I   WALK   THESE   BROAD   MAJESTIC   DAYS. 

A.S  I  walk  these  broad  majestic  days  of  peace, 

(For  the  war,  the  struggle  of  blood  finish'd,  wherein,  O  terrific 

Ideal, 

Against  vast  odds  erewhile  having  gloriously  won, 
Now  thou  stridest  on,  yet  perhaps  in  time  toward  denser  wars, 
Perhaps  to  engage  in  time  in  still  more  dreadful  contests,  dangers, 
Longer  campaigns  and  crises,  labors  beyond  all  others,) 
Around  me  I  hear  that  eclat  of  the  world,  politics,  produce, 
The  announcements  of  recognized  things,  science. 
The  approved  growth  of  cities  and  the  spread  of  inventions. 

I  see  the  ships,  (they  will  last  a  few  years,) 

The  vast  factories  with  their  foremen  and  workmen, 

And  hear  the  indorsement  of  all,  and  do  not  object  to  it. 

But  I  too  announce  solid  things, 

Science,  ships,  politics,  cities,  factories,  are  not  nothing, 

Like   a  grand   procession   to   music   of  distant  bugles  pouring, 

triumphantly  moving,  and  grander  heaving  in  sight, 
They  stand  for  realities  —  all  is  as  it  should  be. 

Then  my  realities ; 

What  else  is  so  real  as  mine  ? 

Libertad  and  the  divine  average,  freedom  to  every  slave  on  the 
face  of  the  earth, 

The  rapt  promises  and  lumine  of  seers,  the  spiritual  world,  these 
centuries-lasting  songs, 

And  our  visions,  the  visions  of  poets,  the  most  solid  announce 
ments  of  any. 


A   CLEAR   MIDNIGHT. 

THIS  is  thy  hour  O  Soul,  thy  free  flight  into  the  wordless, 

Away  from  books,  away  from  art,  the  day  erased,  the  lesson  done, 

Thee  fully  forth   emerging,  silent,  gazing,  pondering  the  themes 

thou  lovest  best, 
Night,  sleep,  death  and  the  stars. 


37°  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

SONGS  OF  PARTING. 

AS   THE   TIME   DRAWS    NIGH. 

A 5  the  time  draws  nigh  glooming  a  cloud, 
A  dread  beyond  of  I  know  not  what  darkens  me. 

I  shall  go  forth, 

I  shall  traverse  the  States  awhile,  but  I  cannot  tell  whither  or  how 

long, 
Perhaps  soon  some  day  or  night  while  I  am  singing  my  voice  will 

suddenly  cease. 

O  book,  O  chants  !  must  all  then  amount  to  but  this  ? 
Must  we   barely  arrive   at  this  beginning  of  us?  —  and  yet  it  is 
enough,  O  soul ; 

0  soul,  we  have  positively  appear'd  —  that  is  enough. 

YEARS   OF   THE   MODERN. 

YEARS  of  the  modern  !  years  of  the  unperform'd  ! 

Your  horizon  rises,  I  see  it  parting  away  for  more  august  dramas, 

1  see  not  America  only,  not  only  Liberty's  nation  but  other  nations 

preparing, 

I  see  tremendous  entrances  and  exits,  new  combinations,  the  soli 
darity  of  races, 

I  see  that  force  advancing  with  irresistible  power  on  the  world's 
stage, 

(Have  the  old  forces,  the  old  wars,  played  their  parts?  are  the 
acts  suitable  to  them  closed?) 

I  see  Freedom,  completely  arm'd  and  victorious  and  very  haughty, 
with  Law  on  one  side  and  Peace  on  the  other, 

A  stupendous  trio  all  issuing  forth  against  the  idea  of  caste ; 

What  historic  denouements  are  these  we  so  rapidly  approach  ? 

I  see  men  marching  and  countermarching  by  swift  millions, 

I  see  the  frontiers  and  boundaries  of  the  old  aristocracies  broken, 

I  see  the  landmarks  of  European  kings  removed, 

I  see  this  day  the  People  beginning  their  landmarks,  (all  others 
give  way ;) 

Never  were  such  sharp  questions  ask'd  as  this  day, 

Never  was  average  man,  his  soul,  more  energetic,  more  like  a  God, 


SONGS  OF  PARTING.  371 

Lo,  how  he  urges  and  urges,  leaving  the  masses  no  rest ! 

His  daring  foot  is  on  land  and  sea  everywhere,  he  colonizes  the 

Pacific,  the  archipelagoes, 
With   the  steamship,  the  electric   telegraph,  the    newspaper,  the 

wholesale  engines  of  war, 
With  these  and  the  world-spreading   factories   he   interlinks   all 

geography,  all  lands ; 
What  whispers  are  these  O  lands,  running  ahead  of  you,  passing 

under  the  seas? 
Are  ail  nations  communing?  is  there  going  to  be  but  one  heart  to 

the  globe? 
Is  humanity  forming  en-masse?  for  lo,  tyrants  tremble,  crowns 

grow  dim, 

The  earth,  restive,  confronts  a  new  era,  perhaps  a  general  divine  war, 
No  one  knows  what  will  happen  next,  such  portents  fill  the  days 

and  nights ; 
Years  prophetical !  the  space  ahead  as  I  walk,  as  I  vainly  try  to 

pierce  it,  is  full  of  phantoms, 

Unborn  deeds,  things  soon  to  be,  project  their  shapes  around  me, 
This  incredible  rush  and  heat,  this  strange  ecstatic  fever  of  dreams 

O  years  ! 
Your  dreams  O  years,  how  they  penetrate  through  me  !   (I  know 

not  whether  I  sleep  or  wake  ;) 
The  perform 'd  America  and  Europe  grow  dim,  retiring  in  shadow 

behind  me, 
The  unperform'd,  more  gigantic  than  ever,  advance,  advance  upon 

me. 


ASHES    OF   SOLDIERS. 


ASHES  of  soldiers  South  or  North, 
As  I  muse  retrospective  murmuring  a  chant  in  thought, 
The  war  resumes,  again  to  my  sense  your  shapes, 
And  again  the  advance  of  the  armies. 

Noiseless  as  mists  and  vapors, 

From  their  graves  in  the  trenches  ascending, 

From  cemeteries  all  through  Virginia  and  Tennessee, 

From  every  point  of  the  compass  out  of  the  countless  graves, 

In  wafted  clouds,  in  myriads  large,  or  squads  of  twos  or  threes  01 

single  ones  they  come, 
And  silently  gather  round  me. 

Now  sound  no  note  O  trumpeters, 

Not  at  the  head  of  my  cavalry  parading  on  spirited  horses, 


372  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

With  sabres  drawn  and  glistening,  and  carbines  by  their  thighs,  (ah 

my  brave  horsemen  ! 

My  handsome  tan- faced  horsemen  !  what  life,  what  joy  and  pride, 
With  all  the  perils  were  yours.) 

Nor  you  drummers,  neither  at  reveille*  at  dawn, 

Nor  the  long  roll  alarming  the  camp,  nor  even  the  muffled  beat 

for  a  burial, 
Nothing  from  you  this  time  O  drummers  bearing  my  warlike  drums. 

But  aside  from  these  and  the  marts  of  wealth  and  the  crowded 

promenade, 
Admitting  around  me  comrades  close  unseen  by  the  rest    and 

voiceless, 

The  slain  elate  and  alive  again,  the  dust  and  debris  alive, 
I  chant  this  chant  of  my  silent  soul  in  the  name  of  all  dead 

soldiers. 

Faces  so  pale  with  wondrous  eyes,  very  dear,  gather  closer  yet, 
Draw  close,  but  speak  not. 

Phantoms  of  countless  lost, 

Invisible  to  the  rest  henceforth  become  my  companions, 

Follow  me  ever  —  desert  me  not  while  I  live. 

Sweet  are  the  blooming  cheeks  of  the  living  —  sweet  are  the  musi 
cal  voices  sounding, 
But  sweet,  ah  sweet,  are  the  dead  with  their  silent  eyes. 

Dearest  comrades,  all  is  over  and  long  gone, 

But  love  is  not  over  —  and  what  love,  O  comrades  ! 

Perfume  from  battle-fields  rising,  up  from  the  fcetor  arising. 

Perfume  therefore  my  chant,  O  love,  immortal  love, 
Give  me  to  bathe  the  memories  of  all  dead  soldiers, 
Shroud  them,  embalm  them,  cover  them  all  over  with  tender  pride. 

Perfume  all  —  make  all  wholesome, 

Make  these  ashes  to  nourish  and  blossom, 

O  love,  solve  all,  fructify  all  with  the  last  chemistry. 

Give  me  exhaustless,  make  me  a  fountain, 

That  I  exhale  love  from  me  wherever  I  go  like  a  moist  perennial 

dew, 
For  the  ashes  of  all  dead  soldiers  South  or  North. 


SONGS  OF  PARTING.  373 

THOUGHTS. 


OF  these  years  I  sing, 

How  they  pass  and  have  pass'd  through  convuls'd  pains,  as  through 

parturitions, 
How  America  illustrates  birth,  muscular  youth,  the  promise,  the 

sure  fulfilment,  the  absolute  success,  despite  of  people  — 

illustrates  evil  as  well  as  good, 

The  vehement  struggle  so  fierce  for  unity  in  one's-self ; 
How  many  hold  despairingly  yet  to  the  models  departed,  caste, 

myths,  obedience,  compulsion,  and  to  infidelity, 
How  few  see  the  arrived  models,  the  athletes,  the  Western  States, 

or  see  freedom  or  spirituality,  or  hold  any  faith  in  results, 
(But  I  see  the  athletes,  and  I  see  the  results  of  the  war  glorious 

and  inevitable,  and  they  again  leading  to  other  results.) 

How  the  great  cities  appear  —  how  the  Democratic  masses,  turbu 
lent,  wilful,  as  I  love  them, 

How  the  whirl,  the  contest,  the  wrestle  of  evil  with  good,  the 
sounding  and  resounding,  keep  on  and  on, 

How  society  waits  unform'd,  and  is  for  a  while  between  things 
ended  and  things  begun, 

How  America  is  the  continent  of  glories,  and  of  the  triumph  of 
freedom  and  of  the  Democracies,  and  of  the  fruits  of  so 
ciety,  and  of  all  that  is  begun, 

And  how  the  States  are  complete  in  themselves  —  and  how  all 
triumphs  and  glories  are  complete  in  themselves,  to  lead 
onward, 

And  how  these  of  mine  and  of  the  States  will  in  their  turn  be  con 
vuls'd,  and  serve  other  parturitions  and  transitions, 

And  how  all  people,  sights,  combinations,  the  democratic  masses 
too,  serve  —  and  how  every  fact,  and  war  itself,  with  all  its 
horrors,  serves, 

And  how  now  or  at  any  time  each  serves  the  exquisite  transition 
of  death. 


Of  seeds  dropping  into  the  ground,  of  births, 

Of  the  steady  concentration  of  America,  inland,  upward,  to  im 
pregnable  and  swarming  places, 

Of  what  Indiana,  Kentucky,  Arkansas,  and  the  rest,  are  to  be, 

Of  what  a  few  years  will  show  there  in  Nebraska,  Colorado, 
Nevada,  and  the  rest, 

(Or  afar,  mounting  the  Northern  Pacific  to  Sitka  or  Aliaska,) 


374  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Of  what  the  feuillage  of  America  is  the  preparation  for  —  and  of 
what  all  sights,  North,  South,  East  and  West,  are, 

Of  this  Union  welded  in  blood,  of  the  solemn  price  paid,  of  the 
unnamed  lost  ever  present  in  my  mind ; 

Of  the  temporary  use  of  materials  for  identity's  sake, 

Of  the  present,  passing,  departing  —  of  the  growth  of  completer 
men  than  any  yet, 

Of  all  sloping  down  there  where  the  fresh  free  giver  the  mother, 
the  Mississippi  flows, 

Of  mighty  inland  cities  yet  unsurvey'd  and  unsuspected, 

Of  the  new  and  good  names,  of  the  modern  developments,  of 
inalienable  homesteads, 

Of  a  free  and  original  life  there,  of  simple  diet  and  clean  and 
sweet  blood, 

Of  litheness,  majestic  faces,  clear  eyes,  and  perfect  physique  there, 

Of  immense  spiritual  results  future  years  far  West,  each  side  of  the 
Anahuacs, 

Of  these  songs,  well  understood  there,  (being  made  for  that  area,) 

Of  the  native  scorn  of  grossness  and  gain  there, 

(O  it  lurks  in  me  night  and  day  —  what  is  gain  after  all  to  savage- 
ness  and  freedom?) 


SONG   AT   SUNSET. 

SPLENDOR  of  ended  day  floating  and  filling  me, 
Hour  prophetic,  hour  resuming  the  past, 
Inflating  my  throat,  you  divine  average, 
You  earth  and  life  till  the  last  ray  gleams  I  sing. 

Open  mouth  of  my  soul  uttering  gladness, 
Eyes  of  my  soul  seeing  perfection, 
Natural  life  of  me  faithfully  praising  things, 
Corroborating  forever  the  triumph  of  things. 

Illustrious  every  one  ! 

Illustrious  what  we  name  space,  sphere  of  unnumber'd  spirits, 

Illustrious  the  mystery  of  motion  in  all  beings,  even  the    tiniest 

insect, 

Illustrious  the  attribute  of  speech,  the  senses,  the  body, 
Illustrious  the  passing  light  —  illustrious  the  pale  reflection  on  the 

new  moon  in  the  western  sky, 
Illustrious  whatever  I  see  or  hear  or  touch,  to  the  last. 

Good  in  all, 

In  the  satisfaction  and  aplomb  of  animals, 


Solves  OF  PARTING.  375 


In  the  annual  return  of  the  seasons, 

In  the  hilarity  of  youth, 

In  the  strength  and  flush  of  manhood, 

In  the  grandeur  and  exquisiteness  of  old  age, 

In  the  superb  vistas  of  death. 

Wonderful  to  depart ! 
Wonderful  to  be  here  ! 

The  heart,  to  jet  the  all-alike  and  innocent  blood  ! 
To  breathe  the  air,  how  delicious  ! 
To  speak  —  to  walk  —  to  seize  something  by  the  hand  ! 
To  prepare  for  sleep,  for  bed,  to  look  on  my  rose-color'd  flesh ! 
To  be  conscious  of  my  body,  so  satisfied,  so  large  ! 
To  be  this  incredible  God  I  am  ! 

To  have  gone  forth  among  other  Gods,  these  men  and  women  \ 
love. 

Wonderful  how  I  celebrate  you  and  myself ! 

How  my  thoughts  play  subtly  at  the  spectacles  around  ! 

How  the  clouds  pass  silently  overhead  ! 

How  the  earth  darts  on  and  on  !  and  how  the  sun,  moon,  stars, 

dart  on  and  on  ! 

How  the  water  sports  and  sings  !  (surely  it  is  alive  !) 
How  the  trees  rise  and  stand  up,  with  strong  trunks,  with  branches 

and  leaves  ! 
(Surely  there  is  something  more  in  each  of  the  trees,  some  living 

soul.) 

O  amazement  of  things  —  even  the  least  particle  ! 
O  spirituality  of  things  ! 

0  strain  musical  flowing  through  ages  and  continents,  now  reaching 

me  and  America  ! 

1  take  your  strong  chords,  intersperse  them,  and  cheerfully  pass 

them  forward. 

I  too  carol  the  sun,  usher'd  or  at  noon,  or  as  now,  setting, 

I  too  throb  to  the  brain  and  beauty  of  the  earth  and  of  all  the 

growths  of  the  earth, 
I  too  have  felt  the  resistless  call  of  myself. 

As  I  steam'd  down  the  Mississippi, 
As  I  wander'd  over  the  prairies, 

As  I  have  lived,  as  I  have  look'd  through  my  windows  my  eyes, 
As  I  went  forth  in  the  morning,  as  I  beheld  the  light  breaking  in 
the  east, 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


As  I  bathed  on  the  beach  of  the  Eastern  Sea,  and  again  on  the 

beach  of  the  Western  Sea, 
As  I  roam'd  the  streets  of  inland  Chicago,  whatever  streets  I  have 

roam'd, 

Or  cities  or  silent  woods,  or  even  amid  the  sights  of  war, 
Wherever  I  have  been  I  have  charged  myself  with  contentment 

and  triumph. 

I  sing  to  the  last  the  equalities  modern  or  old, 
I  sing  the  endless  finales  of  things, 
I  say  Nature  continues,  glory  continues, 
I  praise  with  electric  voice, 

For  I  do  not  see  one  imperfection  in  the  universe, 
And  I  do  not  see  one  cause  or  result  lamentable  at  last  in  the 
universe. 

0  setting  sun  !  though  the  time  has  come, 

1  still  warble  under  you,  if  none  else  does,  unmitigated  adoration. 


AS   AT   THY   PORTALS   ALSO   DEATH. 

As  at  thy  portals  also  death, 

Entering  thy  sovereign,  dim,  illimitable  grounds, 

To  memories  of  my  mother,  to  the  divine  blending,  maternity, 

To  her,  buried  and  gone,  yet  buried  not,  gone  not  from  me, 

(I  see  again  the  calm  benignant  face  fresh  and  beautiful  still, 

I  sit  by  the  form  in  the  coffin, 

I  kiss  and  kiss  convulsively  again  the  sweet  old  lips,  the  cheeks, 

the  closed  eyes  in  the  coffin ;) 
To  her,  the  ideal  woman,  practical,  spiritual,  of  all  of  earth,  life, 

love,  to  me  the  best, 

I  grave  a  monumental  line,  before  I  go,  amid  these  songs, 
And  set  a  tombstone  here. 


MY   LEGACY. 

THE  business  man  the  acquirer  vast, 

After  assiduous  years  surveying  results,  preparing  for  departure, 

Devises  houses  and  lands  to  his  children,  bequeaths  stocks,  goods, 

funds  for  a  school  or  hospital, 
Leaves  money  to  certain  companions  to  buy  tokens,  souvenirs  of 

gems  and  gold. 

But  I,  my  life  surveying,  closing, 


SONGS  of  PARTING.  377 

With  nothing  to  show  to  devise  from  its  idle  years, 

Nor  houses  nor  lands,  nor  tokens  of  gems  or  gold  for  my  friends, 

Yet  certain  remembrances  of  the  war  for  you,  and  after  you, 

And  little  souvenirs  of  camps  and  soldiers,  with  my  love, 

I  bind  together  and  bequeath  in  this  bundle  of  songs. 


PENSIVE   ON   HER  DEAD   GAZING. 

PENSIVE  on  her  dead  gazing  I  heard  the  Mother  of  All, 
Desperate  on  the  torn  bodies,  on  the  forms  covering  the  battle 
fields  gazing, 
(As  the  last  gun   ceased,  but   the   scent   of  the   powder-smoke 

linger'd,) 

As  she  call'd  to  her  earth  with  mournful  voice  while  she  stalk'd, 
Absorb  them  well  O  my  earth,  she  cried,  I  charge  you  lose  not 

my  sons,  lose  not  an  atom, 

And  you  streams  absorb  them  well,  taking  their  dear  blood, 
And    you    local    spots,   and  you   airs   that   swim   above   lightly 

impalpable, 

And  all  you  essences  of  soil  and  growth,  and  you  my  rivers'  depths, 
And  you  mountain  sides,  and  the  woods  where  my  dear  children's 

blood  trickling  redden'd, 

And  you  trees  down  in  your  roots  to  bequeath  to  all  future  trees, 
My  dead  absorb  or  South  or  North  —  my  young   men's   bodies 

absorb,  and  their  precious  precious  blood, 
Which  holding  in  trust  for  me  faithfully  back  again  give  me  many 

a  year  hence, 

In  unseen  essence  and  odor  of  surface  and  grass,  centuries  hence, 
In  blowing  airs  from  the  fields  back  again  give  me  my  darlings, 

give  my  immortal  heroes, 
Exhale  me  them  centuries  hence,  breathe  me  their  breath,  let  not 

an  atom  be  lost, 

O  years  and  graves  !  O  air  and  soil !  O  my  dead,  an  aroma  sweet ! 
Exhale  them  perennial  sweet  death,  years,  centuries  hence. 


CAMPS   OF   GREEN. 

NOT  alone  those  camps  of  white,  old  comrades  of  the  wars, 
When  as  order'd  forward,  after  a  long  march, 
Footsore  and  weary,  soon  as  the  light  lessens  we  halt  for  the  night, 
Some  of  us  so  fatigued  carrying  the  gun  and  knapsack,  dropping 

asleep  in  our  tracks, 
Others   pitching   the   little   tents,  and   the  fires  lit  up  begin  to 

sparkle, 


3/8  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Outposts  of  pickets  posted  surrounding  alert  through  the  dark, 

And  a  word  provided  for  countersign,  careful  for  safety, 

Till  to  the  call  of  the  drummers  at  daybreak  loudly  beating  the 

drums, 
We  rise  up  refresh'd,  the  night  and  sleep  pass'd  over,  and  resume 

our  journey, 
Or  proceed  to  battle. 

Lo,  the  camps  of  the  tents  of  green, 

Which  the  days  of  peace  keep  filling,  and  the  days  of  war  keep 

filling, 
With  a  mystic  army,  (is  it  too  order'd  forward  ?  is  it  too  only  halt  • 

ing  awhile, 
Till  night  and  sleep  pass  over?) 

Now  in  those  camps  of  green,  in  their  tents  dotting  the  world, 
In  the  parents,  children,  husbands,  wives,  in  them,  in  the  old  anc 

young, 
Sleeping  under  the  sunlight,  sleeping  under  the  moonlight,  conten 

and  silent  there  at  last, 

Behold  the  mighty  bivouac-field  and  waiting-camp  of  all, 
Of  the  corps  and  generals  all,  and  the  President  over  the  corps 

and  generals  all, 
And  of  each  of  us  O  soldiers,  and  of  each  and  all  in  the  ranks  we 

fought, 
(There  without  hatred  we  all,  all  meet.) 

For  presently  O  soldiers,  we  too  camp  in  our  place  in  the  bivouac 

camps  of  green, 
But  we  need  not  provide  for  outposts,  nor  word  for  the  counter 

sign, 
Nor  drummer  to  beat  the  morning  drum. 


THE   SOBBING   OF   THE   BELLS. 

(Midnight,  Sept.  19-20,  1881.) 

THE  sobbing  of  the  bells,  the  sudden  death-news  everywhere, 

The  slumberers  rouse,  the  rapport  of  the  People, 

( Full  well  they  know  that  message  in  the  darkness, 

Full  well  return,  respond  within  their  breasts,  their  brains,  the  sad 

reverberations,) 
The  passionate  toll  and  clang  —  city  to  city,  joining,  sounding, 

passing, 
Those  heart-beats  of  a  Nation  in  the  night 


SONGS  OF  PARTING.  379 

AS   THEY   DRAW  TO   A   CLOSE. 

As  they  draw  to  a  close, 

Of  what  underlies  the  precedent  songs  —  of  my  aims  in  them, 

Of  the  seed  I  have  sought  to  plant  in  them, 

Of  joy,  sweet  joy,  through  many  a  year,  in  them, 

(For  them,  for  them  have  I  lived,  in  them  my  work  is  done,) 

Of  many  an  aspiration  fond,  of  many  a  dream  and  plan ; 

Through  Space  and  Time  fused  in  a  chant,  and  the  flowing  eternal 
identity, 

To  Nature  encompassing  these,  encompassing  God  —  to  the  joy 
ous,  electric  all, 

To  the  sense  of  Death,  and  accepting  exulting  in  Death  in  its 
turn  the  same  as  life, 

The  entrance  of  man  to  sing ; 

To  compact  you,  ye  parted,  diverse  lives, 

To  put  rapport  the  mountains  and  rocks  and  streams, 

And  the  winds  of  the  north,  and  the  forests  of  oak  and  pine, 

With  you  O  soul. 

JOY,   SHIPMATE,  JOY! 

JOY,  shipmate,  joy  ! 
(Pleas'd  to  my  soul  at  death  I  cry,) 
Our  life  is  closed,  our  life  begins, 
The  long,  long  anchorage  we  leave, 
The  ship  is  clear  at  last,  she  leaps  ! 
She  swiftly  courses  from  the  shore, 
Joy,  shipmate,  joy. 

THE   UNTOLD   WANT. 

THE  untold  want  by  life  and  land  ne'er  granted, 
Now  voyager  sail  thou  forth  to  seek  and  find. 


PORTALS. 

WHAT   are   those   of  the   known   but  to   ascend  and   enter  the 

Unknown  ? 
And  what  are  those  of  life  but  for  Death? 


THESE   CAROLS. 

THESE  carols  sung  to  cheer  my  passage  through  the  world  I  see, 
For  completion  I  dedicate  to  the  Invisible  World. 
25 


380  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

NOW   FINALE   TO   THE   SHORE. 

Now  finale  to  the  shore, 

Now  land  and  life  finale  and  farewell, 

Now  Voyager  depart,  (much,  much  for  thee  is  yet  in  store,) 

Often  enough  hast  thou  adventur'd  o'er  the  seas, 

Cautiously  cruising,  studying  the  charts, 

Duly  again  to  port  and  hawser's  tie  returning ; 

But  now  obey  thy  cherish 'd  secret  wish, 

Embrace  thy  friends,  leave  all  in  order, 

To  port  and  hawser's  tie  no  more  returning, 

Depart  upon  thy  endless  cruise  old  Sailor. 


SO  LONG! 
To  conclude,  I  announce  what  comes  after  me. 

I  remember  I  said  before  my  leaves  sprang  at  all, 
I  would  raise  my  voice  jocund  and  strong  with  reference  to  con 
summations. 

When  America  does  what  was  promis'd, 

When  through  these  States  walk  a  hundred  millions  of  superb 

persons, 

When  the  rest  part  away  for  superb  persons  and  contribute  to  them, 
When  breeds  of  the  most  perfect  mothers  denote  America, 
Then  to  me  and  mine  our  due  fruition. 

I  have  press'd  through  in  my  own  right, 

I  have  sung  the  body  and  the  soul,  war  and  peace  have  I  sung, 

and  the  songs  of  life  and  death, 
And  the  songs  of  birth,  and  shown  that  there  are  many  births. 

I  have  offer'd  my  style  to  every  one,  I  have  journey'd  with  confi 
dent  step ; 

While  my  pleasure  is  yet  at  the  full  I  whisper  So  long  ! 

And  take  the  young  woman's  hand  and  the  young  man's  hand  for 
the  last  time. 

I  announce  natural  persons  to  arise, 
I  announce  justice  triumphant, 
I  announce  uncompromising  liberty  and  equality, 
I  announce  the  justification  of  candor  and  the  justification  of 
pride. 


OF  PARTING.  381 

I  announce  that  the  identity  of  these  States  is  a  single  identity 

only, 

I  announce  the  Union  more  and  more  compact,  indissoluble, 
I  announce  splendors  and  majesties  to  make  all  the  previous  poli 

tics  of  the  earth  insignificant. 

I  announce  adhesiveness,  I  say  it  shall  be  limitless,  unloosen'd, 
I  say  you  shall  yet  find  the  friend  you  were  looking  for. 

I  announce  a  man  or  woman  coming,  perhaps  you  are  the  one, 

(So  long  /) 
I  announce  the  great  individual,  fluid  as  Nature,  chaste,  affection 

ate,  compassionate,  fully  arm'd. 

I  announce  a  life  that  shall  be  copious,  vehement,  spiritual,  bold, 
I  announce  an  end  that  shall  lightly  and  joyfully  meet  its  transla 
tion. 

I  announce  myriads  of  youths,  beautiful,  gigantic,  sweet-blooded, 
I  announce  a  race  of  splendid  and  savage  old  men. 

O  thicker  and  faster  —  (So  long  /) 

0  crowding  too  close  upon  me, 

1  foresee  too  much,  it  means  more  than  I  thought, 
It  appears  to  me  I  am  dying. 

Hasten  throat  and  sound  your  last, 

Salute  me  —  salute  the  days  once  more.     Peal  the  old  cry  once 
more. 

Screaming  electric,  the  atmosphere  using, 

At  random  glancing,  each  as  I  notice  absorbing, 

Swiftly  on,  but  a  little  while  alighting, 

Curious  envelop'd  messages  delivering, 

Sparkles  hot,  seed  ethereal  down  in  the  dirt  dropping, 

Myself  unknowing,  my  commission  obeying,  to  question  it  never 

daring, 

To  ages  and  ages  yet  the  growth  of  the  seed  leaving, 
To  troops  out  of  the  war  arising,  they  the  tasks  I  have  set  promul- 


To  women  certain  whispers  of  myself  bequeathing,  their  affection 

me  more  clearly  explaining, 
To  young  men  my  problems  offering  —  no  dallier  I  —  I  the  mus 

cle  of  their  brains  trying, 
So  I  pass,  a  little  time  vocal,  visible,  contrary, 


382  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Afterward  a  melodious  echo,  passionately  bent  for,  (death  making 

me  really  undying,) 
The  best  of  me  then  when  no  longer  visible,  for  toward  that  I  have 

been  incessantly  preparing. 

What  is  there  more,  that  I  lag  and  pause  and  crouch  extended 

with  unshut  mouth  ? 
Is  there  a  single  final  farewell? 

My  songs  cease,  I  abandon  them, 

From  behind  the  screen  where  I  hid  I  advance  personally  solely 
to  you. 

Camerado,  this  is  no  book, 

Who  touches  this  touches  a  man, 

(Is  it  night?  are  we  here  together  alone?) 

It  is  I  you  hold  and  who  holds  you, 

I  spring  from  the  pages  into  your  arms  —  decease  calls  me  forth. 

0  how  your  fingers  drowse  me, 

Your  breath  falls  around  me  like  dew,  your  pulse  lulls  the  tympans 
of  my  ears, 

1  feel  immerged  from  head  to  foot, 
Delicious,  enough. 

Enough  O  deed  impromptu  and  secret, 

Enough  O  gliding  present  —  enough  O  summ'd-up  past. 

Dear  friend  whoever  you  are  take  this  kiss, 

I  give  it  especially  to  you,  do  not  forget  me, 

I  feel  like  one  who  has  done  work  for  the  day  to  retire  awhile, 

I  receive  now  again  of  my  many  translations,  from  my  avataras  as 
cending,  while  others  doubtless  await  me, 

An  unknown  sphere  more  real  than  I  dream'd,  more  direct,  darts 
awakening  rays  about  me,  So  long  / 

Remember  my  words,  I  may  again  return, 

I  love  you,  I  depart  from  materials, 

I  am  as  one  disembodied,  triumphant,  dead. 


SANDS   AT    SEVENTY 

{FIRST  ANNEX} 


FROM  "  NOVEMBER  BOUGHS' 

COPYRIGHT,    1888 

BY 
WALT  WHITMAN 


SANDS  AT   SEVENTY. 


MANNAHATTA. 


MY  city's  fit  and  noble  name  resumed, 
Choice  aboriginal  name,  with  marvellous  beauty,  meaning, 
A  rocky  founded  island — shores  where  ever  gayly  dash  the  coming, 
going,  hurrying  sea  waves. 


PAUMANOK. 

Sea-beauty  !  stretch'd  and  basking  ! 

One  side  thy  inland  ocean  laving,  broad,  with  copious  commerce, 

steamers,  sails, 
And  one  the  Atlantic's  wind  caressing,  fierce  or  gentle — mighty 

hulls  dark-gliding  in  the  distance. 

Isle  of  sweet  brooks  of  drinking-water — healthy  air  and  soil ! 
Isle  of  the  salty  shore  and  breeze  and  brine  ! 


FROM  MONTAUK  POINT. 

I  stand  as  on  some  mighty  eagle's  beak, 

Eastward  the  sea  absorbing,  viewing,  (nothing  but  sea  and  sky,) 

The  tossing  waves,  the  foam,  the  ships  in  the  distance, 

The  wild  unrest,  the  snowy,  curling  caps — that   inbound  urge 

and  urge  of  waves, 
Seeking  the  shores  forever'. 

TO  THOSE  WHO'VE  FAIL'D. 

To  those  who've  fail'd,  in  aspiration  vast, 

To  unnam'd  soldiers  fallen  in  front  on  the  lead, 

To  calm,  devoted  engineers — to  over-ardent  travelers — to  pilots 

on  their  ships, 
To  many  a  lofty  song  and  picture  without  recognition — I'd  rear 

a  laurel-cover' d  monument, 

High,  high  above  the  rest — To  all  cut  off  before  their  time, 
Possess' d  by  some  strange  spirit  of  fire, 
Quench'd  by  an  early  death. 


386  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


A  CAROL  CLOSING  SIXTY-NINE. 

A  carol  closing  sixty-nine — a  resume — a  repetition, 

My  lines  in  joy  and  hope  continuing  on  the  same, 

Of  ye,  O  God,  Life,  Nature,  Freedom,  Poetry ; 

Of  you,  my  Land — your  rivers,  prairies,  States — you,   mottled 

Flag  I  love, 
Your  aggregate  retain' d  entire — Of  north,  south,  east  and  west, 

your  items  all ; 

Of  me  myself — the  jocund  heart  yet  beating  in  my  breast, 
The  body  wreck'd,  old,  poor  and  paralyzed — the  strange  inertia 

falling  pall-like  round  me, 

The  burning  fires  down  in  my  sluggish  blood  not  yet  extinct, 
The  undiminish'd  faith — the  groups  of  loving  friends. 

THE  BRAVEST  SOLDIERS. 

Brave,  brave  were  the  soldier?  (high  named  to-day)  who  lived 

through  the  fight ; 
But  the  bravest  press'd  to  the  front  and  fell,  unnamed,  unknown. 


A  FONT  OF  TYPE. 

This  latent  mine — these  unlaunch'd  voices — passionate  powers, 
Wrath,  argument,  or  praise,  or  comic  leer,  or  prayer  devout, 
(Not  nonpareil,  brevier,  bourgeois,  long  primer  merely,) 
These  ocean  waves  arousable  to  fury  and  to  death, 
Or  sooth' d  to  ease  and  sheeny  sun  and  sleep, 
Within  the  pallid  slivers  slumbering. 

AS  I  SIT  WRITING  HERE. 

As  I  sit  writing  here,  sick  and  grown  old, 

Not  my  least  burden  is  that  dulness  of  the  years,  querilities, 

Ungracious  glooms,  aches,  lethargy,  constipation,  whimpering 

ennui, 
May  filter  in  my  daily  songs. 

MY  CANARY  BIRD. 

Did  we  count  great,  O  soul,  to  penetrate  the  themes  of  mighty 

books, 

Absorbing  deep  and  full  from  thoughts,  plays,  speculations  ? 
But  now  from  thee  to  me,  caged  bird,  to  feel  thy  joyous  warble, 
Filling  the  air,  the  lonesome  room,  the  long  forenoon, 
Is  it  not  just  as  great,  O  soul  ? 


SANDS  AT  SEVENTY.  387 


QUERIES  TO  MY  SEVENTIETH  YEAR. 

Approaching,  nearing,  curious, 

Thou  dim,  uncertain  spectre — bringest  thou  life  or  death? 

Strength,  weakness,  blindness,  more  paralysis  and  heavier? 

Or  placid  skies  and  sun  ?     Wilt  stir  the  waters  yet  ? 

Or  haply  cut  me  short  for  good  ?     Or  leave  me  here  as  now, 

Dull,  parrot-like  and  old,  with  crack'd  voice  harping,  screeching? 

THE  WALLABOUT  MARTYRS. 

[In  Brooklyn,  in  an  old  vault,  marked  by  no  special  recognition,  lie 
huddled  at  this  moment  the  undoubtedly  authentic  remains  of  the  stanchesl 
and  earliest  Revolutionary  patriots  from  the  British  prison  ships  and  prisons 
of  the  times  of  1776-83,  in  and  around  New  York,  and  from  all  over  Long 
island ;  originally  buried — many  thousands  of  them  —  in  trenches  in  the 
Wallabout  sands. ] 

Greater  than  memory  of  Achilles  or  Ulysses, 

More,  more  by  far  to  thee  than  tomb  of  Alexander, 

Those  cart  loads  of  old  charnel  ashes,  scales  and  splints  of 

mouldy  bones, 

Once  living  men — once  resolute  courage,  aspiration,  strength, 
The  stepping  stones  to  thee  to-day  and  here,  America. 

THE  FIRST  DANDELION. 

Simple  and  fresh  and  fair  from  winter's  close  emerging, 

As  if  no  artifice  of  fashion,  business,  politics,  had  ever  been, 

Forth  from  its  sunny  nook  of  shelter' d  grass — innocent,  golden, 

calm  as  the  dawn, 
The  spring's  first  dandelion  shows  its  trustful  face. 

AMERICA. 

Centre  of  equal  daughters,  equal  sons, 

All,  all  alike  endear'd,  grown,  ungrown,  young  or  old, 

Strong,  ample,  fair,  enduring,  capable,  rich, 

Perennial  with  the  Earth,  with  Freedom,  Law  and  Love, 

A  grand,  sane,  towering,  seated  Mother, 

Chair'd  in  the  adamant  of  Time. 

MEMORIES. 

How  sweet  the  silent  backward  tracings ! 

The  wanderings  as  in  dreams — the  meditation  of  old  times  re 
sumed — their  loves,  joys,  persons,  voyages. 


388  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

TO-DAY  AND  THEE. 

The  appointed  winners  in  a  long-stretch* d  game ; 

The  course  of  Time  and  nations — Egypt,  India,  Greece  and 

Rome; 

The  past  entire,  with  all  its  heroes,  histories,  arts,  experiments, 
Its  store  of  songs,  inventions,  voyages,  teachers,  books, 
Garner 'd  for  now  and  thee — To  think  of  it ! 
The  heirdom  all  converged  in  thee  ! 

AFTER  THE  DAZZLE  OF  DAY. 

After  the  dazzle  of  day  is  gone, 

Only  the  dark,  dark  night  shows  to  my  eyes  the  stars ; 

After  the  clangor  of  organ  majestic,  or  chorus,  or  perfect  band, 

Silent,  athwart  my  soul,  moves  the  symphony  true. 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN,  BORN  FEB.  12,  1809. 

To-day,  from  each  and  all,   a  breath  of  prayer — a   pulse   of 

thought, 
To  memory  of  Him — to  birth  of  Him. 

Publish'd  Feb.  12, 1888. 

OUT  OF  MAY'S  SHOWS  SELECTED. 

Apple  orchards,  the  trees  all  cover' d  with  blossoms ; 
Wheat  fields  carpeted  far  and  near  in  vital  emerald  green ; 
The  eternal,  exhaustless  freshness  of  each  early  morning ; 
The  yellow,  golden,  transparent  haze  of  the  warm  afternoon  sun ; 
The  aspiring  lilac  bushes  with  profuse  purple  or  white  flowers. 

HALCYON  DAYS. 

Not  from  successful  love  alone, 

Nor  wealth,  nor  honor'd  middle  age,  nor  victories  of  politics  or 

war ; 

But  as  life  wanes,  and  all  the  turbulent  passions  calm, 
As  gorgeous,  vapory,  silent  hues  cover  the  evening  sky, 
As  softness,  fulness,  rest,  suffuse  the  frame,  like  freshier,  balmier 

air, 
As  the  days  take  on  a  mellower  light,  and  the  apple  at  last  hangs 

really  finish' d  and  indolent-ripe  on  the  tree, 
Then  for  the  teeming  quietest,  happiest  days  of  all ! 
The  brooding  and  blissful  halcyon  days  1 


SANDS  AT  SEVENTY.  389 

FANCIES  AT  NAVESINK. 


THE   PILOT   IN   THE   MIST. 

Steaming  the   northern  rapids — (an  old  St.  Lawrence  reminis 
cence, 

A  sudden  memory-flash  comes  back,  I  know  not  why, 
Here  waiting  for  the  sunrise,  gazing  from  this  hill ;)  * 
Again  'tis  just  at  morning — a  heavy  haze  contends   with  day 
break, 
Again  the  trembling,  laboring  vessel  veers  me — I  press  through 

foam-dash'd  rocks  that  almost  touch  me, 
Again  I  mark  where  aft  the  small  thin  Indian  helmsman 
Looms  in  the  mist,  with  brow  elate  and  governing  hand. 


HAD   I   THE   CHOICE. 

Had  I  the  choice  to  tally  greatest  bards, 

To  limn  their  portraits,  stately,  beautiful,  and  emulate  at  will, 

Homer  with  all  his  wars  and  warriors — Hector,  Achilles,  Ajax, 

Or  Shakspere's  woe-entangled  Hamlet,  Lear,  Othello — Tenny 
son's  fair  ladies, 

Metre  or  wit  the  best,  or  choice  conceit  to  wield  in  perfect 
rhyme,  delight  of  singers ; 

These,  these,  O  sea,  all  these  I'd  gladly  barter, 

Would  you  the  undulation  of  one  wave,  its  trick  to  me  transfer, 

Or  breathe  one  breath  of  yours  upon  my  verse, 

And  leave  its  odor  there. 


YOU    TIDES    WITH    CEASELESS    SWELL. 

You  tides  with  ceaseless  swell !  you  power  that  does  this  work ! 
You  unseen   force,    centripetal,    centrifugal,    through    space's 

spread, 

Rapport  of  sun,  moon,  earth,  and  all  the  constellations, 
What  are  the  messages  by  you  from  distant  stars  to  us  ?  what 

Sirius'?  what  Capella's? 
What   central   heart — and   you    the   pulse — vivifies    all?    what 

boundless  aggregate  of  all  ? 
What  subtle  indirection  and  significance  in  you  ?  what  clue  to 

all  in  you  ?  what  fluid,  vast  identity, 
Holding  the  universe  with  all  its  parts  as  one — as  sailing  in  a  ship  ? 

*  Navesink — a  sea-side  mountain,  lower  entrance  of  New  York  Bay. 


39°  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

LAST  OF  EBB,  AND  DAYLIGHT  WANING. 

Last  of  ebb,  and  daylight  waning, 

Scented  sea-cool  landward   making,  smells   of  sedge  and  salt 

incoming, 

With  many  a  half-caught  voice  sent  up  from  the  eddies, 
Many  a  muffled  confession — many  a  sob  and  whisper'd  word, 
As  of  speakers  far  or  hid. 

How  they  sweep  down  and  out !  how  they  mutter  ! 

Poets   unnamed — artists   greatest   of  any,    with   cherish'd   lost 

designs, 
Love's  unresponse — a  chorus  of  age's  complaints — hope's  last 

words, 
Some  suicide's  despairing  cry,  Away  to  the  boundless  waste,  and 

never  again  return. 

On  to  oblivion  then  ! 

On,  on,  and  do  your  part,  ye  burying,  ebbing  tide ! 

On  for  your  time,  ye  furious  debouche  ! 

AND   YET   NOT   YOU    ALONE. 

And  yet  not  you  alone,  twilight  and  burying  ebb, 

Nor  you,  ye  lost  designs  alone — nor  failures,  aspirations  ; 

I  know,  divine  deceitful  ones,  your  glamour's  seeming  ; 

Duly  by  you,   from  you,  the  tide  and   light   again — duly   the 

hinges  turning, 

Duly  the  needed  discord-parts  offsetting,  blending, 
Weaving  from  you,  from  Sleep,  Night,  Death  itself, 
The  rhythmus  of  Birth  eternal. 

PROUDLY    THE    FLOOD    COMES    IN. 

Proudly  the  flood  comes  in,  shouting,  foaming,  advancing, 

Long  it  holds  at  the  high,  with  bosom  broad  outswelling, 

All  throbs,  dilates — the  farms,  woods,  streets  of  cities — workmen 

at  work, 
Mainsails,  topsails,  jibs,  appear  in  the  offing — steamers'  pennants 

of  smoke — and  under  the  forenoon  sun, 
Freighted  with  human  lives,  gaily  the  outward  bound,  gaily  the 

inward  bound, 
Flaunting  from  many  a  spar  the  flag  I  love. 

BY   THAT    LONG    SCAN    OF    WAVES. 

By  that  long  scan  of  waves,  myself  call'd  back,  resumed  upon 

myself, 
In  every  crest  some  undulating  light  or  shade — some  retrospect, 


SANDS  AT  SEVENTY.  391, 

Joys,  travels,  studies,  silent  panoramas — scenes  ephemeral, 

The  long  past  war,  the  battles,  hospital  sights,  the  wounded  and 

the  dead, 
Myself  through  every  by-gone  phase — my  idle  youth — old  age  at 

hand, 

My  three-score  years  of  life  summ'd  up,  and  more,  and  past, 
By  any  grand  ideal  tried,  intentionless,  the  whole  a  nothing, 
And  haply  yet  some  drop  within  God's  scheme's  ensemble — some 

wave,  or  part  of  wave, 
Like  one  of  yours,  ye  multitudinous  ocean. 

THEN   LAST   OF   ALL. 

Then  last  of  all,  caught  from  these  shores,  this  hill, 

Of  you  O  tides,  the  mystic  human  meaning : 

Only  by  law  of  you,  your  swell  and  ebb,  enclosing  me  the  same, 

The  brain  that  shapes,  the  voice  that  chants  this  song. 


ELECTION   DAY,   NOVEMBER,  1884. 

If  I  should  need  to  name,  O  Western  World,  your  powerfulest 
scene  and  show, 

'Twould  not  be  you,  Niagara — nor  you,  ye  limitless  prairies — nor 
your  huge  rifts  of  canyons,  Colorado, 

Nor  you,  Yosemite — nor  Yellowstone,  with  all  its  spasmic  geyser- 
loops  ascending  to  the  skies,  appearing  and  disappearing, 

Nor  Oregon's  white  cones — nor  Huron's  belt  of  mighty  lakes — 
nor  Mississippi's  stream : 

— This  seething  hemisphere's  humanity,  as  now,  I'd  name — the 
still  small  voice  vibrating — America's  choosing  day, 

(The  heart  of  it  not  in  the  chosen — the  act  itself  the  main,  the 
quadriennial  choosing,) 

The  stretch  of  North  and  South  arous'd — sea-board  and  inland 
— Texas  to  Maine — the  Prairie  States — Vermont,  Virginia, 
California, 

The  final  ballot-shower  from  East  to  West — the  paradox  and  con 
flict, 

The  countless  snow-flakes  falling — (a  swordless  conflict, 

Yet  more  than  all  Rome's  wars  of  old,  or  modern  Napoleon's:) 
the  peaceful  choice  of  all, 

Or  good  or  ill  humanity — welcoming  the  darker  odds,  the  dross : 

— Foams  and  ferments  the  wine?  it  serves  to  purify — while  the 
heart  pants,  life  glows  : 

These  stormy  gusts  and  winds  waft  precious  ships, 

Swell'd  Washington's,  Jefferson's,  Lincoln's  sails. 


392  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


WITH   HUSKY-HAUGHTY  LIPS,  O  SEA  I 

With  husky-haughty  lips,  O  sea ! 

Where  day  and  night  I  wend  thy  surf-beat  shore, 

Imaging  to  my  sense  thy  varied  strange  suggestions, 

(I  see  and  plainly  list  thy  talk  and  conference  here,) 

Thy  troops  of  white-maned  racers  racing  to  the  goal, 

Thy  ample,  smiling  face,  dash'd  with  the  sparkling  dimples  of  the 

sun, 

Thy  brooding  scowl  and  murk — thy  unloos'H  hurricanes, 
Thy  unsubduedness,  caprices,  wilfulness ; 
Great  as  thou  art  above  the  rest,  thy  many  tears — a  lack  from  all 

eternity  in  thy  content, 
(Naught  but  the  greatest  struggles,  wrongs,  defeats,  could  make 

thee  greatest — no  less  could  make  thee,) 
Thy  lonely  state — something  thou  ever  seek'st  and  seek'st,  yet 

never  gain'st, 
Surely  some  right  withheld — some  voice,  in  huge  monotonous 

rage,  of  freedom-lover  pent, 
Some  vast  heart,  like  a  planet's,  chain'd  and  chafing  in  those 

breakers, 

By  lengthen'd  swell,  and  spasm,  and  panting  breath, 
And  rhythmic  rasping  of  thy  sands  and  waves, 
And  serpent  hiss,  and  savage  peals  of  laughter, 
And  undertones  of  distant  lion  roar, 
(Sounding,  appealing  to  the  sky's  deaf  ear — but  now,  rapport  for 

once, 

A  phantom  in  the  night  thy  confidant  for  once,) 
The  first  and  last  confession  of  the  globe, 
Outsurging,  muttering  from  thy  soul's  abysms, 
The  tale  of  cosmic  elemental  passion, 
Thou  tellest  to  a  kindred  soul. 


DEATH  OF  GENERAL  GRANT. 

As  one  by  one  withdraw  the  lofty  actors, 

From  that  great  play  on  history's  stage  eterne, 

That  lurid,  partial  act  of  war  and  peace — of  old  and  new  con 
tending, 

Fought  out  through  wrath,  fears,  dark  dismays,  and  many  a  long 
suspense ; 

All  past — and  since,  in  countless  graves  receding,  mellowing, 

Victor's  and  vanquish'd — Lincoln's  and  Lee's — now  thou  with 
them, 


SANDS  AT  SEVENTY.  393 

\  „—.,,...,„„. 

Man  of  the  mighty  days — and  equal  to  the  days ! 

Thou  from  the  prairies  ! — tangled  and  many-vein 'd  and  hard  has 

been  thy  part, 
To  admiration  has  it  been  enacted  ! 


RED  JACKET   (FROM  ALOFT.) 

[Impromptu  on  Buffalo  City's  monument  to,  and  re-burial  of  the  old Iroquois 
orator,  October  9,  1884.1 

Upon  this  scene,  this  show, 

Yielded  to-day  by  fashion,  learning,  wealth, 

(Nor  in  caprice  alone — some  grains  of  deepest  meaning,) 

Haply,  aloft,  (who  knows?)  from  distant  sky-clouds'  blended 

shapes, 

As  some  old  tree,  or  rock  or  cliff,  thrill'd  with  its  soul, 
Product  of  Nature's  sun,  stars,  earth  direct — a  towering  human 

form, 
In  hunting-shirt  of  film,  arm'd  with  the  rifle,  a  half-ironical  smile 

curving  its  phantom  lips, 
Like  one  of  Ossian's  ghosts  looks  down. 


WASHINGTON'S  MONUMENT,  FEBRUARY.  1885. 

Ah,  not  this  marble,  dead  and  cold : 

Far  from  its  base  and  shaft  expanding — the  round  zones  circling, 
comprehending, 

Thou,  Washington,  art  all  the  world's,  the  continents'  entire — 
not  yours  alone,  America, 

Europe's  as  well,  in  every  part,  castle  of  lord  or  laborer's  cot, 

Or  frozen  North,  or  sultry  South — the  African's — the  Arab's  in 
his  tent, 

Old  Asia's  there  with  venerable  smile,  seated  amid  her  ruins ; 

(Greets  the  antique  the  hero  new?  'tis  but  the  same — the  heir 
legitimate,  continued  ever, 

The  indomitable  heart  and  arm — proofs  of  the  never-broken 
line, 

Courage,  alertness,  patience,  faith,  the  same — e'en  in  defeat  de 
feated  not,  the  same:) 

Wherever  sails  a  ship,  or  house  is  built  on  land,  or  day  or  night, 

Through  teeming  cities'  streets,  indoors  or  out,  factories  or  farms, 

Now,  or  to  come,  or  past — where  patriot  wills  existed  or  exist, 

Wherever  Freedom,  pois'd  by  Toleration,  sway'd  by  Law, 

Stands  or  is  rising  thy  true  monument. 


394  LEAVES  OF  CRASS. 


OF  THAT   BLITHE  THROAT  OF  THINE. 

[More  than  eighty-three  degrees  north — about  a  good  day's  steaming  dis 
tance  to  the  Pole  by  one  of  our  fast  oceaners  in  clear  water  —  Greely  the 
explorer  heard  the  song  of  a  single  snow-bird  merrily  sounding  over  the 
desolation, ,] 

Of  that  blithe  throat  of  thine  from  arctic  bleak  and  blank, 

I'll  mind  the  lesson,  solitary  bird — let  me  too  welcome  chilling 

drifts, 
E'en  the  profoundest  chill,  as  now — a  torpid  pulse,  a  brain  un- 

nerv'd, 

Old  age  land-lock'd  within  its  winter  bay — (cold,  cold,  O  cold  !) 
These  snowy  hairs,  my  feeble  arm,  my  frozen  feet, 
For  them  thy  faith,  thy  rule  I  take,  and  grave  it  to  the  last ; 
Not  summer's  zones  alone — not  chants  of  youth,  or  south's  warm 

tides  alone, 
But  held  by  sluggish  floes,  pack'd  in  the  northern  ice,  the  cumulus 

of  years, 
These  with  gay  heart  I  also  sing. 

BROADWAY. 

What  hurrying  human  tides,  or  day  or  night ! 

What  passions,  winnings,  losses,  ardors,  swim  thy  waters ! 

What  whirls  of  evil,  bliss  and  sorrow,  stem  thee  ! 

What  curious  questioning  glances — glints  of  love  ! 

Leer,  envy,  scorn,  contempt,  hope,  aspiration  ! 

Thou  portal — thou  arena — thou  of  the  myriad  long-drawn  lines 

and  groups ! 
(Could  but  thy  flagstones,  curbs,  facades,  tell  their  inimitable 

tales ; 

Thy  windows  rich,  and  huge  hotels — thy  side-walks  wide ;) 
Thou  of  the  endless  sliding,  mincing,  shuffling  feet ! 
Thou,  like  the  parti-colored  world  itself — like  infinite,  teeming, 

mocking  life ! 
Thou  visor' d,  vast,  unspeakable  show  and  lesson  ! 

TO  GET  THE  FINAL  LILT  OF  SONGS. 

To  get  the  final  lilt  of  songs, 

To  penetrate  the  inmost  lore  of  poets — to  know  the  mighty  ones, 
Job,  Homer,  Eschylus,  Dante,  Shakspere,  Tennyson,  Emerson ; 
To  diagnose  the  shifting-delicate  tints  of  love  and  pride  and 

doubt — to  truly  understand, 

To  encompass  these,  the  last  keen  faculty  and  entrance-price, 
Old  age,  and  what  it  brings  from  all  its  past  experiences. 


SANDS  AT  SEVENTY.  395 

OLD   SALT   KOSSABONE. 

Far  back,  related  on  my  mother's  side, 

Old  Salt  Kossabone,  I'll  tell  you  how  he  died : 

(Had  been  a  sailor  all  his  life — was  nearly  90 — lived  with  his 
married  grandchild,  Jenny ; 

House  on  a  hill,  with  view  of  bay  at  hand,  and  distant  capes  and 
stretch  to  open  sea ;) 

The  last  of  afternoons,  the  evening  hours,  for  many  a  year  his 
regular  custom, 

In  his  great  arm  chair  by  the  window  seated, 

(Sometimes,  indeed,  through  half  the  day,) 

Watching  the  coming,  going  of  the  vessels,  he  mutters  to  himself 
— And  now  the  close  of  all : 

One  struggling  outbound  brig,  one  day,  baffled  for  long — cross- 
tides  and  much  wrong  going, 

At  last  at  nightfall  strikes  the  breeze  aright,  her  whole  luck  veer 
ing* 

And  swiftly  bending  round  the  cape,  the  darkness  proudly  enter 
ing,  cleaving,  as  he  watches, 

"  She's  free — she's  on  her  destination  " — these  the  last  words — 
when  Jenny  came,  he  sat  there  dead, 

Dutch  Kossabone,  Old  Salt,  related  on  my  mother's  side,  far 
back. 

THE  DEAD  TENOR. 

As  down  the  stage  again, 

With  Spanish  hat  and  plumes,  and  gait  inimitable, 

Back  from  the  fading  lessons  of  the  past,  I'd  call,  I'd  tell  and 

own, 
How  much  from  thee  !    the  revelation  of  the  singing  voice  from 

thee ! 

(So  firm — so  liquid-soft — again  that  tremulous,  manly  timbre  ! 
The  perfect  singing  voice — deepest  of  all  to  me  the  lesson — trial 

and  test  of  all :) 
How  through  those  strains  distill' d — how  the  rapt  ears,  the  soul 

of  me,  absorbing 
Fernanda's  heart,  Manned* s  passionate   call,  Ernani's,  sweet 

Gennaro's, 

I  fold  thenceforth,  or  seek  to  fold,  within  my  chants  transmuting, 
Freedom's  and  Love's  and  Faith's  unloos'd  cantabile, 
(As  perfume's,  color's,  sunlight's  correlation  :) 
From  these,  for  these,  with  these,  a  hurried  line,  dead  tenor, 
A  .vafted  autumn  leaf,  dropt  in  the  closing  grave,  the  shovel  'd 

earth, 

To  memory  of  thee. 
26 


39 6  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


CONTINUITIES. 
[From  a  talk  I  had  lately  with  a  German  spiritualist^ 

Nothing  is  ever  really  lost,  or  can  be  lost, 

No  birth,  identity,  form — no  object  of  the  world. 

Nor  life,  nor  force,  nor  any  visible  thing ; 

Appearance  must  not  foil,  nor  shifted  sphere  confuse  thy  brain. 

Ample  are  time  and  space — ample  the  fields  of  Nature. 

The  body,  sluggish,  aged,  cold — the  embers  left  from  earlier 

fires, 

The  light  in  the  eye  grown  dim,  shall  duly  flame  again ; 
The  sun  now  low  in  the  west  rises  for  mornings  and  for  noons 

continual ; 

To  frozen  clods  ever  the  spring's  invisible  law  returns, 
With  grass  and  flowers  and  summer  fruits  and  corn. 

YONNONDIO. 

[  77/i?  sense  of  the  word  is  lament  for  the  aborigines.     //  is  an  Iroquois  term  ; 
and  has  been  used  for  a  personal  name.} 

A  song,  a  poem  of  itself — the  word  itself  a  dirge, 
Amid  the  wilds,  the  rocks,  the  storm  and  wintry  night, 
To  me  such  misty,  strange  tableaux  the  syllables  calling  up ; 
Yonnondio — I  see,  far  in  the  west  or  north,  a  limitless  ravine, 

with  plains  and  mountains  dark, 

I  see  swarms  of  stalwart  chieftains,  medicine-men,  and  warriors, 
As  flitting  by  like  clouds  of  ghosts,  they  pass  and  are  gone  in  the 

twilight, 

(Race  of  the  woods,  the  landscapes  free,  and  the  falls  ! 
No  picture,  poem,  statement,  passing  them  to  the  future:) 
Yonnondio  !  Yonnondio  ! — unlimn'd  they  disappear; 
To-day  gives  place,  and  fades — the  cities,  farms,  factories  fade ; 
A  muffled  sonorous  sound,  a  wailing  word  is  borne  through  the 

air  for  a  moment, 
Then  blank  and  gone  and  still,  and  utterly  lost. 

LIFE. 

Ever  the  undiscouraged,  resolute,  struggling  soul  of  man ; 
(Have  former  armies  fail'd?  then  we  send  fresh  armies — and 

fresh  again ;) 

Ever  the  grappled  mystery  of  all  earth's  ages  old  or  new ; 
Ever  the  eager  eyes,  hurrahs,  the  welcome-clapping  hands,  the 

loud  applause ; 

Ever  the  soul  dissatisfied,  curious,  unconvinced  at  last  $ 
Struggling  to-day  the  same — battling  the  same. 


SANDS  AT  SEVENTY.  397 


"GOING   SOMEWHERE." 

My  science-friend,  my  noblest  woman-friend, 

(Now  buried  in  an  English  grave — and  this  a  memory-leaf  for 

her  dear  sake,) 
Ended  our  talk — "The  sum,  concluding  all  we  know  of  old  or 

modern  learning,  intuitions  deep, 
"Of  all  Geologies — Histories — of  all  Astronomy — of  Evolution, 

Metaphysics  all, 
"  Is,  that  we  all  are  onward,  onward,  speeding  slowly,  surely 

bettering, 
"  Life,  life  an  endless  march,  an  endless  army,  (no  halt,  but  it  is 

duly  over,) 

"  The  world,  the  race,  the  soul — in  space  and  time  the  universes, 
"All  bound  as  is  befitting  each — all  surely  going  somewhere." 

From  the  1867  edition  L.  of  G. 

SMALL  THE  THEME  OF  MY  CHANT. 

Small  the  theme  of  my  Chant,  yet  the  greatest — namely,  One's- 
Self — a  simple,  separate  person.  That,  for  the  use  of  the 
New  World,  I  sing. 

Man's  physiology  complete,  from  top  to  toe,  I  sing.  Not  physi 
ognomy  alone,  nor  brain  alone,  is  worthy  for  the  Muse ; — I 
say  the  Form  complete  is  worthier  far.  The  Female  equally 
with  the  Male,  I  sing. 

Nor  cease  at  the  theme  of  One's-Self.  I  speak  the  word  of  the 
modern,  the  word  En-Masse. 

My  Days  I  sing,  and  the  Lands — with  interstice  I  knew  of  hap 
less  War. 

(O  friend,  whoe'er  you  are,  at  last  arriving  hither  to  commence, 
I  feel  through  every  leaf  the  pressure  of  your  hand,  which  I 
return. 

And  thus  upon  our  journey,  footing  the  road,  and  more  than 
once,  and  link'd  together  let  us  go.) 

TRUE  CONQUERORS. 

Old  farmers,  travelers,  workmen   (no  matter  how  crippled  or 

bent,) 

Old  sailors,  out  of  many  a  perilous  voyage,  storm  and  wreck, 
Old  soldiers  from  campaigns,  with  all  their  wounds,  defeats  and 

scars ; 

Enough  that  they've  survived  at  all — long  life's  unflinching  ones  ! 
Forth  from  their  struggles,  trials,  fights,  to  have  emerged  at  alj 

— in  that  alone, 
True  conquerors  o'er  all  the  rest. 


398  LEAVES  OF  CRASS. 

THE  UNITED  STATES  TO  OLD  WORLD  CRITICS. 

Here  first  the  duties  of  to-day,  the  lessons  of  the  concrete, 
Wealth,  order,  travel,  shelter,  products,  plenty; 
As  of  the  building  of  some  varied,  vast,  perpetual  edifice, 
Whence  to  arise  inevitable  in  time,  the  towering  roofs,  the  lamps, 
The  solid-planted  spires  tall  shooting  to  the  stars. 

THE   CALMING  THOUGHT  OF  ALL. 

That  coursing  on,  whate'er  men's  speculations, 

Amid  the  changing  schools,  theologies,  philosophies, 

Amid  the  bawling  presentations  new  and  old, 

The  round  earth's  silent  vital  laws,  facts,  modes  continue. 

THANKS  IN  OLD  AGE. 

Thanks  in  old  age — thanks  ere  I  go, 

For  health,  the  midday  sun,  the  impalpable  air — for  life,  mere 
life, 

For  precious  ever-lingering  memories,  (of  you  my  mother  dear 
— you,  father — you,  brothers,  sisters,  friends,) 

For  all  my  days — not  those  of  peace  alone — the  days  of  war  the 
same, 

For  gentle  words,  caresses,  gifts  from  foreign  lands, 

For  shelter,  wine  and  meat — for  sweet  appreciation, 

(You  distant,  dim  unknown — or  young  or  old — countless,  un 
specified,  readers  belov'd, 

We  never  met,  and  ne'er  shall  meet — and  yet  our  souls  embrace, 
long,  close  and  long ;) 

For  beings,  groups,  love,  deeds,  words,  books — for  colors,  forms, 

For  all  the  brave  strong  men — devoted,  hardy  men — who've  for 
ward  sprung  in  freedom's  help,  all  years,  all  lands, 

For  braver,  stronger,  more  devoted  men — (a  special  laurel  ere  I 
go,  to  life's  war's  chosen  ones, 

The  cannoneers  of  song  and  thought — the  great  artillerists — the 
foremost  leaders,  captains  of  the  soul :) 

As  soldier  from  an  ended  war  return 'd — As  traveler  out  of 
myriads,  to  the  long  procession  retrospective, 

Thanks — joyful  thanks ! — a  soldier's,  traveler's  thanks. 

LIFE  AND  DEATH. 

The  two  old,  simple  problems  ever  intertwined, 
Close  home,  elusive,  present,  baffled,  grappled. 
By  each  successive  age  insoluble,  pass'd  on, 
To  ours  to-day — and  we  pass  on  the  same. 


SANDS  AT  SEVENTY.  399 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  RAIN. 

And  who  art  thou  ?  said  I  to  the  soft-falling  shower, 

Which,  strange  to  tell,  gave  me  an  answer,  as  here  translated: 

I  am  the  Poem  of  Earth,  said  the  voice  of  the  rain, 

Eternal  I  rise  impalpable  out  of  the  land  and  the  bottomless  sea, 

Upward  to  heaven,  whence,  vaguely  form'd,  altogether  changed, 

and  yet  the  same, 

I  descend  to  lave  the  drouths,  atomies,  dust-layers  of  the  globe, 
And  all  that  in  them  without  me  were  seeds  only,  latent,  unborn  ; 
And    forever,  by  day  and  night,  I  give   back   life    to   my  own 

origin,  and  make  pure  and  beautify  it ; 

(For  song,  issuing  from  its  birth-place,  after  fulfilment,  wander 
ing, 
Reck'd  or  unreck'd.  duly  with  love  returns.) 

SOON  SHALL  THE  WINTER'S  FOIL  BE  HERE. 

Soon  shall  the  winter's  foil  be  here ; 

Soon  shall  these  icy  ligatures  unbind  and  melt — A  little  while, 

And  air,  soil,  wave,  suffused  shall  be  in  softness,  bloom  and 
growth — a  thousand  forms  shall  rise 

From  these  dead  clods  and  chills  as  from  low  burial  graves. 

Thine  eyes,  ears — all  thy  best  attributes — all  that  takes  cognizance 
of  natural  beauty, 

Shall  wake  and  fill.  Thou  shalt  perceive  the  simple  shows,  the 
delicate  miracles  of  earth, 

Dandelions,  clover,  the  emerald  grass,  the  early  scents  and  flow 
ers, 

The  arbutus  under  foot,  the  willow's  yellow-green,  the  blossom 
ing  plum  and  cherry; 

With  these  the  robin,  lark  and  thrush,  singing  their  songs — the 
flitting  bluebird ; 

For  such  the  scenes  the  annual  play  brings  on. 

WHILE  NOT  THE  PAST  FORGETTING 

While  not  the  past  forgetting, 

To-day,  at  least,  contention  sunk  entire — peace,  brotherhood  up 
risen  ; 

For  sign  reciprocal  our  Northern,  Southern  hands, 
Lay  on  the  graves  of  all  dead  soldiers,  North  or  South, 
(Nor  for  the  past  alone — for  meanings  to  the  future,) 
Wreaths  of  roses  and  branches  of  palm. 
Publish'd  May  30,  1888 


400  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

THE  DYING  VETERAN. 
[A  Long  Island  incident —  early  part  of  the  present  century. "\ 

Amid  these  days  of  order,  ease,  prosperity, 
Amid  the  current  songs  of  beauty,  peace,  decorum, 
I  cast  a  reminiscence — (likely  'twill  offend  you, 
I  heard  it  in  my  boyhood;) — More  than  a  generation  since, 
A  queer  old  savage  man,  a  fighter  under  Washington  himself, 
(Large,  brave,  cleanly,  hot-blooded,  no  talker,  rather  spiritual 
istic, 
Had  fought  in  the  ranks — fought  well — had  been  all  through  the 

Revolutionary  war,) 
Lay  dying — sons,  daughters,  church-deacons,  lovingly  tending 

him, 

Sharping  their  sense,  their  ears,  towards  his  murmuring,  half- 
caught  words : 

"Let  me  return  again  to  my  war-days, 
To  the  sights  and  scenes — to  forming  the  line  of  battle, 
To  the  scouts  ahead  reconnoitering, 
To  the  cannons,  the  grim  artillery, 
To  the  galloping  aids,  carrying  orders, 
To  the  wounded,  the  fallen,  the  heat,  the  suspense, 
The  perfume  strong,  the  smoke,  the  deafening  noise ; 
Away  with  your  life  of  peace  ! — your  joys  of  peace  ! 
Give  me  my  old  wild  battle-life  again  !  " 


STRONGER  LESSONS. 

Have  you  learn 'd  lessons  only  of  those  who  admired  you,  and 
were  tender  with  you,  and  stood  aside  for  you  ? 

Have  you  not  learn'd  great  lessons  from  those  who  reject  you, 
and  brace  themselves  against  you  ?  or  who  treat  you  with 
contempt,  or  dispute  the  passage  with  you  ? 


A  PRAIRIE  SUNSET. 

Shot  gold,  maroon  and  violet,  dazzling  silver,  emerald,  fawn, 

The  earth's  whole  amplitude  and  Nature's  multiform  power  con 
sign 'd  for  once  to  colors; 

The  light,  the  general  air  possess' d  by  them — colors  till  now  un 
known, 

No  limit,  confine — not  the  Western  sky  alone — the  high  meri 
dian — North,  South,  all, 

Pure  luminous  color  fighting  the  silent  shadows  to  the  last. 


SANDS  AT  SEVENTY*  401 


TWENTY  YEARS. 

Down  on  the  ancient  wharf,  the  sand,  I  sit,  with  a  new-comer 

chatting : 

He  shipp'd  as  green-hand  boy,  and  sail'd  away,  (took  some  sud 
den,  vehement  notion ;) 

Since,  twenty  years  and  more  have  circled  round  and  round, 
While  he  the  globe  was  circling  round  and  round, — and  now 

returns : 
How   changed    the    place — all    the   old    land-marks   gone — the 

parents  dead; 
(Yes,  he  comes  back  to  lay  in  port  for  good — to  settle — has  a  well- 

fill'd  purse— no  spot  will  do  but  this ;) 
The  little  boat  that  scull'd  him  from  the   sloop,  now  held  in 

leash  I  see, 
I  hear  the  slapping  waves>  the  restless  keel,  the  rocking  in  the 

sand, 
I  see  the  sailor  kit,  the  canvas  bag,  the  great  box  bound  with 

brass, 
I  scan  the  face  all  berry-brown  and  bearded — the  stout-strong 

frame, 

Dress' d  in  its  russet  suit  ot  good  Scotch  cloth : 
(Then  what  the  told-out  story  of  those  twenty  years  ?  What  of 

the  future?) 

ORANGE  BUDS   BY   MAIL  FROM  FLORIDA. 

[  Voltaire  closed  a  famous  argument  by  claiming  that  a  ship  of  war  and  the 
grand  opera  were  proofs  enough  of  civilization* s  and  France's  progress^  in 
his  dayJ\ 

A  lesser  proof  than  old  Voltaire's,  yet  greater, 

Proof   of   this   present   time,    and    thee,    thy   broad    expanse, 

America, 

To  my  plain  Northern  hut,  in  outside  clouds  and  snow, 
Brought  safely  for  a  thousand  miles  o'er  land  and  tide, 
Some  three  days  since  on  their  own  soil  live-sprouting, 
Now  here  their  sweetness  through  my  room  unfolding, 
A  bunch  of  orange  buds  by  mail  from  Florida. 


TWILIGHT. 

The  soft  voluptuous  opiate  shades, 

The  sun  just  gone,  the  eager  light  dispell'd — (I  too  will  soon  be 

gone,  dispell'd,) 
A  haze — nirwana — rest  and  night — oblivion. 


402  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

YOU  LINGERING  SPARSE  LEAVES  OF  ME. 

You  lingering  sparse  leaves  of  me  on  winter-nearing  boughs, 

And  I  some  well-shorn  tree  of  field  or  orchard-row; 

You  tokens  diminute  and  lorn — (not  now  the  flush  of  May,  or 

July  clover-bloom — no  grain  of  August  now ;) 
You  pallid  banner-staves — you   pennants   valueless — you   over* 

stay'd  of  time, 

Yet  my  soul-dearest  leaves  confirming  all  the  rest, 
The  faithfulest— hardiest— last. 


NOT  MEAGRE,  LATENT  BOUGHS  ALONE. 

Not  meagre,  latent  boughs  alone,   O  songs!  (scaly  and  bare, 

like  eagles'  talons,) 
But  haply  for  some  sunny  day  (who  knows  ?)  some  future  spring, 

some  summer — bursting  forth, 

To  verdant  leaves,  or  sheltering  shade — to  nourishing  fruit, 
Apples  and  grapes — the  stalwart  limbs  of  trees  emerging — the 

fresh,  free,  open  air, 
And  love  and  faith,  like  scented  roses  blooming. 


THE  DEAD  EMPEROR. 

To-day,  with  bending  head  and  eyes,  thou,  too,  Columbia, 
Less   for   the   mighty  crown   laid   low  in  sorrow — less  for  the 

Emperor, 
Thy  true  condolence  breathest,  sendest  out  o'er  many  a  salt  sea 

mile, 

Mourning  a  good  old  man — a  faithful  shepherd,  patriot. 
Publish'd  March  10,  1888. 


AS  THE  GREEK'S  SIGNAL  FLAME. 
'[For  Whittled s  eightieth  birthday,  December  77,  1887.1 

As  the  Greek's  signal  flame,  by  antique  records  told, 
Rose  from  the  hill-top,  like  applause  and  glory, 
Welcoming  in  fame  some  special  veteran,  hero, 
With  rosy  tinge  reddening  the  land  he'd  served, 
So  I  aloft  from  Mannahatta's  ship-fringed  shore, 
Lift  high  a  kindled  brand  for  thee,  Old  Poet. 


SANDS  AT  SEVENTY.  403 


THE  DISMANTLED   SHIP. 

In  some  unused  lagoon,  some  nameless  bay, 

On  sluggish,  lonesome  waters,  anchor'd  near  the  shore, 

An  old,  dismasted,  gray  and  batter'd  ship,  disabled,  done, 

After  free  voyages  to  all  the  seas  of  earth,  haul'd  up  at  last  and 

hawser' d  tight, 
Lies  rusting,  mouldering. 

NOW   PRECEDENT  SONGS,   FAREWELL. 

Now  precedent  songs,  farewell — by  every  name  farewell, 
(Trains   of  a  staggering   line   in    many  a  strange   procession, 

waggons, 
From  ups  and  downs — with  intervals — from  elder  years,  mid-age, 

or  youth,) 

"  In  Cabin'd  Ships,"  or  "  Thee  Old  Cause"  or"Poets  to  Come" 
Or  "Paumanok,"  "  Song  of  Myself,"  "  Calamus,"  or  "Adam," 
Or  "Beat!  Beat!  Drums!"  or  "To  the  Leaven'd  Soil  they 

Trod," 
Or  "  Captain  !  My  Captain  !  "  "  Kosmos,"  "  Quicksand  Years," 

or  "Thoughts," 
"Thou  Mother  with  thy  Equal  Brood,"  and  many,  many  more 

unspecified, 
From  fibre  heart  of  mine — from  throat  and  tongue — (My  life's 

hot  pulsing  blood, 
The  personal  urge  and  form  for  me — not  merely  paper,  automatic 

type  and  ink,) 
Each  song  of  mine — each  utterance  in  the  past — having  its  long, 

long  history, 

Of  life  or  death,  or  soldier's  wound,  of  country's  loss  or  safety, 
(O  heaven  !  what  flash  and  started  endless  train  of  all !  com 
pared  indeed  to  that ! 
What  wretched  shred  e'en  at  the  best  of  all !) 

AN  EVENING  LULL. 

After  a  week  of  physical  anguish, 

Unrest    and  pain,  and  feverish  heat, 

Toward  the  ending  day  a  calm  and  lull  comes  on, 

Three  hours  of  peace  and  soothing  rest  of  brain.* 

*  The  two  songs  on  this  page  are  eked  out  during  an  afternoon,  June,  1888, 
in  my  seventieth  year,  at  a  critical  spell  of  illness.  Of  course  no  reader  and 
probably  no  human  being  at  any  time  will  ever  have  such  phases  of  emotional 
and  solemn  action  as  these  involve  to  me.  I  feel  in  them  an  end  and  close 
of  all. 


404  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

OLD  AGE'S  LAMBENT  PEAKS. 

The  touch  of  flame — the  illuminating  fire — the  loftiest  look  at 

last, 
O'er  city,  passion,  sea — o'er  prairie,  mountain,  wood — the  earth 

itself; 

The  airy,  different,  changing  hues  of  all,  in  falling  twilight, 
Objects  and  groups,  bearings,  faces,  reminiscences; 
The  calmer  sight — the  golden  setting,  clear  and  broad : 
So  much  i'  the  atmosphere,  the  points  of  view,  the  situations 

whence  we  scan, 
Bro't  out  by  them  alone — so  much  (perhaps  the  best)  unreck'd 

before ; 
The  lights  indeed  from  them — old  age's  lambent  peaks. 

AFTER  THE  SUPPER  AND  TALK. 

After  the  supper  and  talk — after  the  day  is  done, 

As  a  friend  from  friends  his  final  withdrawal  prolonging, 

Good-bye  and  Good-bye  with  emotional  lips  repeating, 

(So  hard  for  his  hand  to  release  those  hands — no  more  will  they 

meet, 

No  more  for  communion  of  sorrow  and  joy,  of  old  and  young, 
A  far-stretching  journey  awaits  him,  to  return  no  more,) 
Shunning,  postponing  severance — seeking  to  ward  off  the  last 

word  ever  so  little, 

E'en  at  the  exit-door  turning — charges  superfluous  calling  back- 
e'en  as  he  descends  the  steps, 
Something  to  eke  out  a  minute  additional — shadows  of  nightfall 

deepening, 
Farewells,  messages  lessening — dimmer   the   forthgoer's  visage 

and  form, 

Soon  to  be  lost  for  aye  in  the  darkness — loth,  O  so  loth  to  de 
part ! 
Garrulous  to  the  very  last. 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY 

(SECOND  ANNEX) 


COPYRIGHT,    1891 

BY 

WALT  WHITMAN 


PREFACE   NOTE   TO   2d   ANNEX, 

CONCLUDING    L.    OF    G.  —  1891. 

HAD  I  not  better  withhold  (in  this  old  age  and  paralysis  of 
me)  such  little  tags  and  fringe-dots  (maybe  specks,  stains,)  as 
follow  a  long  dusty  journey,  and  witness  it  afterward  ?  I  have 
probably  not  been  enough  afraid  of  careless  touches,  from  the 
first — and  am  not  now — nor  of  parrot-like  repetitions  —  nor 
platitudes  and  the  commonplace.  Perhaps  I  am  too  democratic 
for  such  avoidances.  Besides,  is  not  the  verse-field,  as  origi- 
nally  plann'd  by  my  theory,  now  sufficiently  illustrated  —  and  full 
time  for  me  to  silently  retire  ?  —  (indeed  amid  no  loud  call  or 
market  for  my  sort  of  poetic  utterance). 

In  answer,  or  rather  defiance,  to  that  kind  of  well-put  inter 
rogation,  here  comes  this  little  cluster,  and  conclusion  of  my 
preceding  clusters.  Though  not  at  all  clear  that,  as  here  col 
lated,  it  is  worth  printing  (certainly  1  have  nothing  fresh  to 
write)  —  I  while  away  the  hours  of  my  726.  year  —  hours  of 
forced  confinement  in  my  den  —  by  putting  in  shape  this  small 
old  age  collation  : 

Last  droplets  of  and  after  spontaneous  rain, 

From  many  limpid  distillations  and  past  showers  ; 

(Will  they  germinate  anything?  mere  exhalations  as  they  all  are  — 

the  land's  and  sea's  —  America's  ; 
Will  they  filter  to  any  deep  emotion?  any  heart  and  brain?) 

However  that  may  be,  I  feel  like  improving  to-day's  oppor 
tunity  and  wind  up.  During  the  last  two  years  I  have  sent  out, 
in  the  lulls  of  illness  and  exhaustion,  certain  chirps  —  lingering- 
dying  ones  probably  (undoubtedly)  —  which  now  I  may  as  well 
gather  and  put  in  fair  type  while  able  to  see  correctly —  (for  my 
eyes  plainly  warn  me  they  are  dimming,  and  my  brain  more  and 
more  palpably  neglects  or  refuses,  month  after  month,  even  slight 
tasks  or  revisions). 

In  fact,  here  I  am  these  current  years  1890  and  '91,  (each 
successive  fortnight  getting  stiffer  and  stuck  deeper)  much  like 
some  hard-cased  dilapidated  grim  ancient  shell-fish  or  time- 
bang'd  conch  (no  legs,  utterly  non-locomotive)  cast  up  high  and 


408  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


dry  on  the  shore-sands,  helpless  to  move  anywhere  —  nothing 
left  but  behave  myself  quiet,  and  while  away  the  days  yet 
assign'd,  and  discover  if  there  is  anything  for  the  said  grim  and 
time-bang'd  conch  to  be  got  at  last  out  of  inherited  good  spirits 
and  primal  buoyant  centre-pulses  down  there  deep  somewhere 

within  his  gray-blurr'd  old  shell (Reader,  you  must  allow 

a  little  fun  here  —  for  one  reason  there  are  too  many  of  the  fol 
lowing  poemets  about  death,  &c.,  and  for  another  the  passing 
hours  (July  5,  1890)  are  so  sunny-fine.  And  old  as  I  am  I  feel 
to-day  almost  a  part  of  some  frolicsome  wave,  or  for  sporting 
yet  like  a  kid  or  kitten  —  probably  a  streak  of  physical  adjust 
ment  and  perfection  here  and  now.  I  believe  I  have  it  in  me 
perennially  anyhow.) 

Then  behind  all,  the  deep-down  consolation  (it  is  a  glum  one, 
but  I  dare  not  be  sorry  for  the  fact  of  it  in  the  past,  nor  refrain 
from  dwelling,  even  vaunting  here  at  the  end)  that  this  late-years 
palsied  old  shorn  and  shell-fish  condition  of  me  is  the  indubitable 
outcome  and  growth,  now  near  for  20  years  along,  of  too  over- 
zealous,  over-continued  bodily  and  emotional  excitement  and 
action  through  the  times  of  1862,  '3,  '4  and  '5,  visiting  and 
waiting  on  wounded  and  sick  army  volunteers,  both  sides,  in 
campaigns  or  contests,  or  after  them,  or  in  hospitals  or  fields 
south  of  Washington  City,  or  in  that  place  and  elsewhere  — 
those  hot,  sad,  wrenching  times  —  the  army  volunteers,  all 
States, — or  North  or  South  —  the  wounded,  suffering,  dying  — 
the  exhausting,  sweating  summers,  marches,  battles,  carnage  — 
those  trenches  hurriedly  heap'd  by  the  corpse-thousands,  mainly 
unknown  —  Will  the  America  of  the  future  —  will  this  vast  rich 
Union  ever  realize  what  itself  cost,  back  there  after  all  ?  —  those 
hecatombs  of  battle-deaths  —  Those  times  of  which,  O  far-off 
reader,  this  whole  book  is  indeed  finally  but  a  reminiscent 
memorial  from  thence  by  me  to  you? 


GOOD-BYE    MY    FANCY. 


SAIL  OUT  FOR   GOOD,  EIDOLON  YACHT! 

HEAVE  the  anchor  short ! 
Raise  main-sail  and  jib  —  steer  forth, 

0  little  white-hull' d  sloop,  now  speed  on  really  deep  waters, 
(I  will  not  call  it  our  concluding  voyage, 

But  outset  and  sure  entrance  to  the  truest,  best,  maturest ;) 
Depart,  depart  from  solid  earth — no  more  returning  to  these 

shores, 

Now  on  for  aye  our  infinite  free  venture  wending, 
Spurning  all  yet  tried  ports,  seas,  hawsers,  densities,  gravitation, 
Sail  out  for  good,  eidolon  yacht  of  me ! 

LINGERING  LAST  DROPS. 
AND  whence  and  why  come  you  ? 

We  know  not  whence,  (was  the  answer,) 

We  only  know  that  we  drift  here  with  the  rest, 

That  we  linger'd  and  lagg'd — but  were  wafted  at  last,  and  are 

now  here, 
To  make  the  passing  shower's  concluding  drops. 

GOOD-BYE   MY   FANCY. 

GOOD-BYE*  my  fancy — (I  had  a  word  to  say, 

But  'tis  not  quite  the  time — The  best  of  any  man's  word  or  say, 

Is  when  its  proper  place  arrives — and  for  its  meaning, 

1  keep  mine  till  the  last.) 

*  Behind  a  Good-bye  there  lurks  much  of  the  salutation  of  another  be 
ginning — to  me,  Development,  Continuity,  Immortality,  Transformation,  are 
the  chiefest  life-meanings  of  Nature  and  Humanity,  and  are  the  sine  qua 
non  of  all  facts,  and  each  fact. 

Why  do  folks  dwell  so  fondly  on  the  last  words,  advice,  appearance,  of  t'te 
departing?  Those  last  words  are  not  samples  of  the  best,  which  involve 
vitality  at  its  full,  and  balance,  and  perfect  control  and  scope.  But  they  .ire 
valuable  beyond  measure  to  confirm  and  endorse  the  varied  train,  facts,  theo 
ries  and  faith  of  the  whole  preceding  life. 


LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


ON,  ON  THE  SAME,  YE  JOCUND  TWAIN! 

ON,  on  the  same,  ye  jocund  twain ! 

My  life  and  recitative,  containing  birth,  youth,  mid-age  years, 

Fitful  as  motley-tongues  of  flame,  inseparably  twined  and  merged 

in  one — combining  all, 
My  single  soul — aims,  confirmations,  failures,  joys — Nor  single 

soul  alone, 
I  chant  my  nation's  crucial  stage,  (America's,  haply  humanity's) 

— the  trial  great,  the  victory  great, 
A  strange   eclaircissement  of  all  the   masses   past,    the   eastern 

world,  the  ancient,  medieval, 
Here,  here  from  wanderings,  strayings,  lessons,  wars,  defeats — 

here  at  the  west  a  voice  triumphant — justifying  all, 
A  gladsome  pealing  cry — a  song  for  once  of  utmost  pride  and 

satisfaction  j 
I  chant  from  it  the  common  bulk,  the  general  average  horde, 

(the  best  no  sooner  than  the  worst) — And  now  I  chant  old 

age, 
(My  verses,  written  first  for  forenoon  life,  and  for  the  summer's, 

autumn's  spread, 

I  pass  to  snow-white  hairs  the  same,  and  give  to  pulses  winter- 
coord  the  same ;) 
As  here  in  careless  trill,  I  and  my  recitatives,  with  faith  and 

love, 

Wafting  to  other  work,  to  unknown  songs,  conditions, 
On,  on,  ye  jocund  twain  !   continue  on  the  same  ! 

MY  yistYEAR. 

AFTER  surmounting  three-score  and  ten, 

With  all  their  chances,  changes,  losses,  sorrows, 

My  parents'  deaths,   the  vagaries  of  my  life,   the  many  tearing 

passions  of  me,  the  war  of  '63  and  '4, 
As  some  old  broken  soldier,  after  a  long,  hot,  wearying  march, 

or  haply  after  battle, 
To-day  at  twilight,  hobbling,  answering  company  roll-call,  Here, 

with  vital  voice, 
Reporting  yet,  saluting  yet  the  Officer  over  all. 

APPARITIONS. 

A  VAGUE  mist  hanging  'round  half  the  pages : 
(Sometimes  how  strange  and  clear  to  the  soul, 
That  all  these  solid  things  are  indeed  but  apparitions,  concepts, 
non-realities.) 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY.  411 


THE  PALLID  WREATH. 

SOMEHOW  I  cannot  let  it  go  yet,  funeral  though  it  is, 

Let  it  remain  back  there  on  its  nail  suspended, 

With  pink,  blue,  yellow,  all  blanch'd,  and  the  white  now  gray 

and  ashy, 

One  wither' d  rose  put  years  ago  for  thee,  dear  friend ; 
But  I  do  not  forget  thee.     Hast  thou  then  faded  ? 
Is  the  odor  exhaled  ?    Are  the  colors,  vitalities,  dead  ? 
No,  while  memories  subtly  play — the  past  vivid  as  ever ; 
For  but  last  night  I  woke,  and  in  that  spectral  ring  saw  thee, 
Thy  smile,  eyes,  face,  calm,  silent,  loving  as  ever  : 
So  let  the  wreath  hang  still  awhile  within  my  eye-reach, 
It  is  not  yet  dead  to  me,  nor  even  pallid. 

AN   ENDED  DAY. 

THE  soothing  sanity  and  blitheness  of  completion, 
The  pomp  and  hurried  contest-glare  and  rush  are  done ; 
Now  triumph  !  transformation  !  jubilate  !  * 

*  NOTE. — Summer  country  life. — Several  years. — In  my  rambles  and  explo 
rations  I  found  a  woody  place  near  the  creek,  where  for  some  reason  the  birds 
m  happy  mood  seem'd  to  resort  in  unusual  numbers.  Especially  at  the 
beginning  of  the  day,  and  again  at  the  ending,  I  was  sure  to  get  there  the 
most  copious  bird-concerts.  I  repair'd  there  frequently  at  sunrise — and  also 
at  sunset,  or  just  before  .  .  .  Once  the  question  arose  in  me  :  Which  is  the  best 
singing,  the  first  or  the  lattermost?  The  first  always  exhilarated,  and  perhaps 
seem'd  more  joyous  and  stronger;  but  I  always  felt  the  sunset  or  late  after 
noon  sounds  more  penetrating  and  sweeter — seem'd  to  touch  the  soul — often 
the  evening  thrushes,  two  or  three  of  them,  responding  and  perhaps  blending. 
Though  I  miss'd  some  of  the  mornings,  I  found  myself  getting  to  be  quite 
strictly  punctual  at  the  evening  utterances. 

ANOTHER  NOTE. — "  He  went  out  with  the  tide  and  the  sunset,"  was  a 
phrase  I  heard  from  a  surgeon  describing  an  old  sailor's  death  under  pecu 
liarly  gentle  conditions. 

During  the  Secession  War,  1863  and  '4,  visiting  the  Army  Hospitals  around 
Washington,  I  form'd  the  habit,  and  continued  it  to  the  end,  whenever  the  ebb 
or  flood  tide  began  the  latter  part  of  day,  of  punctually  visiting  those  at 
that  time  populous  wards  of  suffering  men.  Somehow  (or  I  thought  so)  the 
effect  of  the  hour  was  palpable.  The  badly  wounded  would  get  some  ease, 
and  would  like  to  talk  a  little,  or  be  talk'd  to.  Intellectual  and  emotional 
natures  would  be  at  their  best :  Deaths  were  always  easier ;  medicines  seem'd 
to  have  better  effect  when  given  then,  and  a  lulling  atmosphere  would 
pervade  the  wards. 

Similar  influences,  similar  circumstances  and  hours,  day-close,  after  great 
battles,  even  with  all  their  horrors.     I  had  more  than  once  the  same  expe- 
.  rience  on  the  fields  cover'd  with  fallen  or  dead. 
27 


412  LEAVES  OF  GRABS. 


OLD  AGE'S  SHIP  &  CRAFTY  DEATH'S. 

FROM  east  and  west  across  the  horizon's  edge, 

Two  mighty  masterful  vessels  sailers  steal  upon  us : 

But  we  '11  make  race  a-time  upon  the  seas — a  battle-contest  yet! 

bear  lively  there  ! 

(Our  joys  of  strife  and  derring-do  to  the  last !) 
Put  on  the  old  ship  all  her  power  to-day ! 
Crowd  top-sail,  top-gallant  and  royal  studding-sails, 
Out  challenge  and  defiance — flags  and  flaunting  pennants  added, 
As  we  take  to  the  open — take  to  the  deepest,  freest  waters. 

TO  THE  PENDING  YEAR. 

HAVE  I  no  weapon-word  for  thee  —  some   message  brief  and 

fierce  ? 
(Have  I  fought  out  and  done  indeed  the  battle  ?)  Is  there  no  shot 

left, 

For  all  thy  affectations,  lisps,  scorns,  manifold  silliness  ? 
Nor  for  myself — my  own  rebellious  self  in  thee  ? 

Down,  down,  proud  gorge  ! — though  choking  thee; 

Thy   bearded    throat   and  high-borne  forehead  to  the   gutter; 

Crouch  low  thy  neck  to  eleemosynary  gifts. 


SHAKSPERE-BACON'S  CIPHER. 

I  DOUBT  it  not — then  more,  far  more  ; 

In  each  old  song  bequeath' d — in  every  noble  page  or  text, 

(Different  —  something    unreck'd     before — some    unsuspected 

author,) 
In  every  object,  mountain,  tree,  and  star — in  every  birth  and 

life, 
As  part  of  each — evolv'd  from  each — meaning,  behind  the  os- 

tent, 
A  mystic  cipher  waits  infolded. 

LONG,  LONG  HENCE. 

AFTER  a  long,  long  course,  hundreds  of  years,  denials, 

Accumulations,  rous'd  love  and  joy  and  thought, 

Hopes,  wishes,    aspirations,    ponderings,  victories,    myriads  of 

readers, 

Coating,  compassing,  covering — after  ages'  and  ages'  encrus 
tations, 
Then  only  may  these  songs  reach  fruition. 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY.  413 


BRAVO,  PARIS  EXPOSITION! 

ADD  to  your  show,  before  you  close  it,  France, 

With  all  the  rest,  visible,  concrete,  temples,  towers,  goods,  ma 
chines  and  ores, 

Our  sentiment  wafted  from  many  million  heart-throbs,  ethereal 
but  solid, 

(We  grand-sons  and  great-grand-sons  do  not  forget  your  grand- 
sires,) 

From  fifty  Nations  and  nebulous  Nations,  compacted,  sent  over 
sea  to-day, 

America's  applause,  love,  memories  and  good- will. 

INTERPOLATION  SOUNDS. 

[  General  Philip  Sheridan  -was  bttried  at  the  Cathedral,  Washington,  D.  C., 
August,  1888,  with  all  the  pomp,  music,  and  ceremonies  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
service.} 

OVER  and  through  the  burial  chant, 

Organ  and  solemn  service,  sermon,  bending  priests, 

To  me  come  interpolation  sounds  not  in  the  show — plainly  to 

me,  crowding  up  the  aisle  and  from  the  window, 
Of  sudden  battle's  hurry  and  harsh  noises — war's  grim  game  to 

sight  and  ear  in  earnest ; 
The  scout  call'd  up  and  forward — the  general  mounted  and  his 

aids  around  him — the  new-brought  word — the  instantaneous 

order  issued  ; 
The  rifle  crack — the  cannon  thud — the  rushing  forth  of  men 

from  their  tents ; 
The  clank  of  cavalry — the  strange  celerity  of  forming  ranks — 

the  slender  bugle  note  ; 

The  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  departing — saddles,  arms,  accoutre 
ments.* 

*  NOTE. — CAMDEN,  N.  J.,  August  7,  1888. — Walt  Whitman  asks  the  New 
York  Herald  "  to  add  his  tribute  to  Sheridan :  " 

"  In  the  grand  constellation  of  five  or  six  names,  under  Lincoln's  Presi 
dency,  that  history  will  bear  for  ages  in  her  firmament  £s  marking  the  last 
life-throbs  of  secession,  and  beaming  on  its  dying  gasps,  Sheridan's  will  be 
bright.  One  consideration  rising  out  of  the  now  dead  soldier's  example  as 
it  passes  my  mind,  is  worth  taking  notice  of.  If  the  war  had  continued  any 
long  time  these  States,  in  my  opinion,  would  have  shown  and  proved  the 
most  conclusive  military  talents  ever  evinced  by  any  nation  on  earth.  That 
they  possess'd  a  rank  and  file  ahead  of  all  other  known  in  points  of  quality 
and  limitlessness  of  number  are  easily  admitted.  But  we  have,  too,  the  eligi 
bility  of  organizing,  handling  and  officering  equal  to  the  other.  These  two, 
with  modern  arms,  transportation,  and  inventive  American  genius,  would  make 
the  United  States,  with  earnestness,  not  only  able  to  stand  the  whole  world, 
but  conquer  that  world  united  against  us." 


4H  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

TO  THE  SUN-SET  BREEZE. 

AH,  whispering,  something  again,  unseen, 

Where  late  this  heated  day  thou  enterest  at  my  window,  door, 

Thou,  laving,  tempering  all,  cool-freshing,  gently  vitalizing 

Me,  old,  alone,  sick,  weak-down,  melted-worn  with  sweat ; 

Thou,  nestling,  folding  close  and  firm  yet  soft,  companion  bet 
ter  than  talk,  book,  art, 

(Thou  hast,  O  Nature  !  elements  !  utterance  to  my  heart  beyond 
the  rest — and  this  is  of  them,) 

So  sweet  thy  primitive  taste  to  breathe  within — thy  soothing 
fingers  on  my  face  and  hands, 

Thou,  messenger-magical  strange  bringer  to  body  and  spirit  of 
me, 

(Distances  balk'd — occult  medicines  penetrating  me  from  head 
to  foot,) 

I  feel  the  sky,  the  prairies  vast — I  feel  the  mighty  northern 
lakes, 

I  feel  the  ocean  and  the  forest — somehow  I  feel  the  globe  itself 
swift -swimming  in  space ; 

Thou  blown  from  lips  so  loved,  now  gone — haply  from  endless 
store,  God-sent, 

(For  thou  art  spiritual,  Godly,  most  of  all  known  to  my 
sense,) 

Minister  to  speak  to  me,  here  and  now,  what  word  has  never 
told,  and  cannot  tell, 

Art  thou  not  universal  concrete's  distillation  ?  Law's,  all  As 
tronomy's  last  refinement  ? 

Hast  thou  no  soul  ?    Can  I  not  know,  identify  thee  ? 

OLD  CHANTS. 

AN  ancient  song,  reciting,  ending, 

Once  gazing  toward  thee,  Mother  of  All, 

Musing,  seeking  themes  fitted  for  thee, 

Accept  for  me,  thou  saidst,  the  elder  ballads, 

And  name  for  me  before  thou  goest  each  ancient  poet. 

(Of  many  debts  incalculable, 

Haply  our  New  World's  chieftest  debt  is  to  old  poems.) 

Ever  so  far  back,  preluding  thee,  America, 
Old  chants,  Egyptian  priests,  and  those  of  Ethiopia, 
The  Hindu  epics,  the  Grecian,  Chinese,  Persian, 
The  Biblic  books  and  prophets,  and  deep  idyls  of  the  Naza- 
rene, 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY.  415 


The  Iliad,  Odyssey,  plots,  doings,  wanderings  of  Eneas, 

Hesiod,  Eschylus,  Sophocles,  Merlin,  Arthur, 

The  Cid,  Roland  at  Roncesvalles,  the  Nibelungen, 

The  troubadours,  minstrels,  minnesingers,  skalds, 

Chaucer,  Dante,  flocks  of  singing  birds, 

The  Border  Minstrelsy,  the  bye-gone  ballads,  feudal  tales,  essays, 

plays, 

Shakspere,  Schiller,  Walter  Scott,  Tennyson, 
As  some  vast  wondrous  weird  dream-presences, 
The  great  shadowy  groups  gathering  around, 
Darting  their  mighty  masterful  eyes  forward  at  thee, 
Thou  !  with  as  now  thy  bending  neck  and  head,  with  courteous 

hand  and  word,  ascending, 
Thou !  pausing  a  moment,  drooping  thine  eyes  upon  them,  blent 

with  their  music, 

Well  pleased,  accepting  all,  curiously  prepared  for  by  them, 
Thou  enterest  at  thy  entrance  porch. 

A  CHRISTMAS  GREETING. 

[From  a  Northern  Star- Group  to  a  Southern.     1889-90."] 

WELCOME,  Brazilian  brother — thy  ample  place  is  ready ; 

A  loving  hand — a  smile  from  the  north — a  sunny  instant  hail ! 

(Let  the  future  care  for  itself,  where  it  reveals  its  troubles,  im- 

pedimentas, 
Ours,  ours  the  present  throe,  the  democratic  aim,  the  acceptance 

and  the  faith ;) 
To  thee  to-day  our  reaching  arm,  our  turning  neck — to  thee 

from  us  the  expectant  eye, 

Thou  cluster  free !  thou  brilliant  lustrous  one !  thou,  learning  well, 
The  true  lesson  of  a  nation's  light  in  the  sky, 
(More  shining  than  the  Cross,  more  than  the  Crown,) 
The  height  to  be  superb  humanity. 

SOUNDS  OF  THE  WINTER. 

SOUNDS  of  the  winter  too, 

Sunshine  upon  the  mountains — many  a  distant  strain 

From  cheery  railroad  train — from  nearer  field,  barn,  house, 

The  whispering  air — even  the  mute  crops,  garner'd  apples,  corn, 

Children's  and  women's  tones — rhythm  of  many  a  farmer  and 

of  flail, 
An  old  man's  garrulous  lips  among  the  rest,   Think  not  we  give 

out  yet, 
Forth  from  these  snowy  hairs  we  keep  up  yet  the  lilt. 


4i 6  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 


A  TWILIGHT  SONG. 

As  I  sit  in  twilight  late  alone  by  the  flickering  oak-flame, 
Musing  on  long-pass'd  war-scenes — of  the  countless  buried  un 
known  soldiers, 
Of  the  vacant  names,  as  unindented  air's  and  sea's — the   un- 

return'd, 
The  brief  truce  after  battle,  with  grim  burial- squads,  and  the 

deep-fill' d  trenches 
Of  gather'd  dead  from  all  America,  North,  South,  East,  West, 

whence  they  came  up, 

From  wooded  Maine,  New-England's  farms,  from  fertile  Penn 
sylvania,  Illinois,  Ohio, 
From  the  measureless  West,  Virginia,  the  South,  the  Carolinas, 

Texas, 
(Even  here  in  my  room-shadows  and  half-lights  in  the  noiseless 

flickering  flames, 
Again  I   see   the  stalwart   ranks  on-filing,  rising — I   hear  the 

rhythmic  tramp  of  the  armies  ;) 
You  million  unwrit  names  all,  all — you  dark  bequest  from  all  the 

war, 
A  special  verse  for  you — a  flash  of  duty  long  neglected — your 

mystic  roll  strangely  gather'd  here, 
Each  name  recall'd  by  me  from  out  the  darkness  and  death's 

ashes, 
Henceforth  to  be,  deep,  deep  within  my  heart  recording,  for 

many  a  future  year, 
Your   mystic    roll    entire  of   unknown    names,   or    North  or 

South, 
Embalm'd  with  love  in  this  twilight  song. 


WHEN  THE  FULL-GROWN  POET  CAME. 

WHEN  the  full-grown  poet  came, 

Out  spake  pleased  Nature  (the  round  impassive  globe,  with  all 
its  shows  of  day  and  night,)  saying,  He  is  mine; 

But  out  spake  too  the  Soul  of  man,  proud,  jealous  and  unrec 
onciled,  Nay,  he  is  mine  alone ; 

—Then  the  full-grown  poet  stood  between  the  two,  and  took 
each  by  the  hand ; 

And  to-day  and  ever  so  stands,  as  blender,  uniter,  tightly  hold 
ing  hands, 

Which  he  will  never  release  until  he  reconciles  the  two, 

And  wholly  and  joyously  blends  them. 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY.  417 


OSCEOLA. 

[  When  I  was  nearly  grown  to  manhood  in  Brooklyn,  New  York  (middle 
of  1838),  I  met  one  of  the  returned  U.S.  Marines  from  Fort  Moultrie, 
S.C.,  and  had  long  talks -with  him  —  learrid  the  occurrence  below  described 
—  death  of  Osceoia.  The  latter  was  a  young,  brave,  leading  Seminole  in 
the  Florida  war  of  that  time  —  was  surrendered  to  our  troops,  imprisoned, 
and  literally  died  of  "  a  broken  heart"  at  Fort  Moultrie.  He  sickened  of 
his  confinement — the  doctor  and  officers  made  every  allowance  and  kindness 
possible  for  him  ;  then  the  close.'} 

WHEN  his  hour  for  death  had  come, 

He  slowly  rais'd  himself  from  the  bed  on  the  floor, 

Drew  on  his  war-dress,  shirt,   leggings,   and   girdled  the  belt 

around  his  waist, 
Call'd  for  vermilion  paint  (his  looking-glass  was  held  before 

him,) 

Painted  half  his  face  and  neck,  his  wrists,  and  back-hands. 
Put  the  scalp-knife  carefully  in  his  belt — then  lying  down,  resting 

a  moment, 
Rose  again,  half  sitting,  smiled,  gave  in  silence  his  extended 

hand  to  each  and  all, 
Sank  faintly  low  to  the  floor  (tightly  grasping  the  tomahawk 

handle,) 
Fix'd  his  look  on  wife  and  little  children — the  last : 

(And  here  a  line  in  memory  of  his  name  and  death.) 

A  VOICE  FROM  DEATH. 
[  The  Johnstown,  Penn.t  cataclysm,  May  31,  i88g."\ 

A  VOICE  from  Death,  solemn  and  strange,  in  all  his  sweep  and 

power, 
With  sudden,  indescribable  blow — towns  drown'd— humanity  by 

thousands  slain, 
The  vaunted  work  of  thrift,  goods,  dwellings,  forge,  street,  iron 

bridge, 

Dash'd  pell-mell  by  the  blow — yet  usher'd  life  continuing  on, 
(Amid  the  rest,  amid  the  rushing,  whirling,  wild  debris, 
A  suffering  woman  saved — a  baby  safely  born  !) 

Although  I  come  and  unannounc'd,  in  horror  and  in  pang, 

In  pouring  flood  and  fire,  and  wholesale  elemental  crash,  (this 

voice  so  solemn,  strange,) 
I  too  a  minister  of  Deity. 

Yea,  Death,  we  bow  our  faces,  veil  our  eyes  to  thee, 
We  mourn  the  old,  the  young  untimely  drawn  to  thee, 
The  fair,  the  strong,  the  good,  the  capable, 


418  LEAVES  OP  GRASS. 

The  household  wreck'd,  the  husband  and  the  wife,  the  engulf  'd 

forger  in  his  forge, 

The  corpses  in  the  whelming  waters  and  the  mud, 
The  gather'd  thousands  to  their  funeral  mounds,  and  thousands 

never  found  or  gather'd. 

Then  after  burying,  mourning  the  dead, 

(Faithful  to  them  found  or  unfound,  forgetting  not,  bearing  the 

past,  here  new  musing,) 

A  day — a  passing  moment  or  an  hour — America  itself  bends  low, 
Silent,  resign'd,  submissive. 

War,  death,  cataclysm  like  this,  America, 
Take  deep  to  thy  proud  prosperous  heart. 

E'en  as  I  chant,  lo !  out  of  death,  and  out  of  ooze  and  slime, 
The  blossoms  rapidly  blooming,  sympathy,  help,  love, 
From  West  and  East,  from  Soutli  and  North  and  over  sea, 
Its  hot-spurr'd  hearts  and  hands  humanity  to  human  aid  moves  on; 
And  from  within  a  thought  and  lesson  yet. 

Thou  ever-darting  Globe  !  through  Space  and  Air ! 

Thou  waters  that  encompass  us  ! 

Thou  that  in  all  the  life  and  death  of  us,  in  action  or  in  sleep ! 

Thou  laws  invisible  that  permeate  them  and  all, 

Thou   that   in   all,  and   over  all,  and   through  and  under  all, 

incessant  ! 
Thou  !  thou !  the  vital,  universal,  giant  force  resistless,  sleepless, 

calm, 

Holding  Humanity  as  in  thy  open  hand,  as  some  ephemeral  toy, 
How  ill  to  e'er  forget  thee ! 

For  I  too  have  forgotten, 

(Wrapt  in  these   little   potencies  of  progress,  politics,  culture, 

wealth,  inventions,  civilization,) 
Have   lost  my  recognition  of  your  silent  ever-swaying  power, 

ye  mighty,  elemental  throes, 
In  which  and  upon  which  we  float,  and  every  one  of  us  is 

buoy'd. 

A  PERSIAN  LESSON. 

FOR  his  overarching  and  last  lesson  the  greybeard  sufi, 

In  the  fresh  scent  of  the  morning  in  the  open  air, 

On  the  slope  of  a  teeming  Persian  rose-garden, 

Under  an  ancient  chestnut-tree  wide  spreading  its  branches, 

Spoke  to  the  young  priests  and  students. 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY.  419 

"  Finally  my  children,  to  envelop  each  word,  each  part  of  the 

rest, 

Allah  is  all,  all,  all — is  immanent  in  every  life  and  object, 
May-be  at  many  and  many-a-more  removes — yet  Allah,  Allah, 

Allah  is  there. 

"Has  the  estray  wander'd  far?     Is  the  reason-why  strangely 

hidden  ? 

Would  you  sound  below  the  restless  ocean  of  the  entire  world  ? 
Would  you  know  the  dissatisfaction  ?  the  urge  and  spur  of  every 

life; 
The  something  never  still'd — never  entirely  gone?  the  invisible 

need  of  every  seed  ? 

"  It  is  the  central  urge  in  every  atom, 

(Often  unconscious,  often  evil,  downfallen,) 

To  return  to  its  divine  source  and  origin,  however  distant, 

Latent  the  same  in  subject  and  in  object,  without  one  exception." 

THE  COMMONPLACE. 

THE  commonplace  I  sing ; 

How  cheap  is  health  !  how  cheap  nobility  ! 

Abstinence,  no  falsehood,  no  gluttony,  lust ; 

The  open  air  I  sing,  freedom,  toleration, 

(Take  here  the  mainest  lesson — less  from  books — less  from  the 

schools,) 

The  common  day  and  night — the  common  earth  and  waters, 
Your  farm — your  work,  trade,  occupation, 
The  democratic  wisdom  underneath,  like  solid  ground  for  all. 

"THE  ROUNDED  CATALOGUE   DIVINE  COMPLETE." 

[Sunday, .  —  Went  this  forenoon  to  church.     A  college  pro~ 

fessor,  Rev.  Dr. ,  gave  us  a  fine  sermon,  during  which  I  caught  the  above 

zvords  ;  but  the  minister  included  in  his  "  rounded  catalogue  "  letter  and  spirit, 
only  the  esthetic  things,  and  entirely  ignored  what  I  name  in  the  following.] 

THE  devilish  and  the  dark,  the  dying  and  diseas'd, 

The   countless  (nineteen-twentieths)    low  and   evil,  crude  and 

savage, 

The  crazed,  prisoners  in  jail,  the  horrible,  rank,  malignant, 
Venom  and  filth,  serpents,  the  ravenous  sharks,  liars,  the  disso 
lute; 
(What  is  the  part  the  wicked  and  the  loathesome  bear  within 

earth's  orbic  scheme  ?) 

Newts,  crawling  things  in  slime  and  mud,  poisons, 
The  barren  soil,  the  evil  men,  the  slag  and  hideous  rot. 


420  LEAVES  OP  GRASS. 

MIRAGES. 

{Noted  verbatim  after  a  supper-talk  outdoors  in  Nevada  with  two  old  miners!] 

MORE  experiences  and  sights,  stranger,  than  you'd  think  for; 

Times  again,  now  mostly  just  after  sunrise  or  before  sunset, 

Sometimes  in  spring,  oftener  in  autumn,  perfectly  clear  weather, 
in  plain  sight, 

Camps  far  or  near,  the  crowded  streets  of  cities  and  the  shop- 
fronts, 

(Account  for  it  or  not — credit  or  not — it  is  all  true, 

And  my  mate  there  could  tell  you  the  like — we  have  often  con 
fab' d  about  it,) 

People  and  scenes,  animals,  trees,  colors  and  lines,  plain  as  could 
be, 

Farms  and  dooryards  of  home,  paths  border' d  with  box,  lilacs 
in  corners, 

Weddings  in  churches,  thanksgiving  dinners,  returns  of  long- 
absent  sons, 

Glum  funerals,  the  crape-veil' d  mother  and  the  daughters, 

Trials  in  courts,  jury  and  judge,  the  accused  in  the  box, 

Contestants,  battles,  crowds,  bridges,  wharves, 

Now  and  then  mark'd  faces  of  sorrow  or  joy, 

(I  could  pick  them  out  this  moment  if  I  saw  them  again,) 

Show'd  to  me  just  aloft  to  the  right  in  the  sky-edge, 

Or  plainly  there  to  the  left  on  the  hill-tops. 

L.  OF  G.'S  PURPORT. 

NOT  to  exclude  or  demarcate,  or  pick  out  evils  from  their  formid 
able  masses  (even  to  expose  them,) 

But  add,  fuse,  complete,  extend — and  celebrate  the  immortal  and 
the  good. 

Haughty  this  song,  its  words  and  scope, 

To  span  vast  realms  of  space  and  time, 

Evolution — the  cumulative — growths  and  generations. 

Begun  in  ripen'd  youth  and  steadily  pursued, 

Wandering,   peering,  dallying  with  all- — war,  peace,   day  and 

night  absorbing, 

Never  even  for  one  brief  hour  abandoning  my  task, 
I  end  it  here  in  sickness,  poverty,  and  old  age. 

I  sing  of  life,  yet  mind  me  well  of  death : 

To-day  shadowy   Death  dogs  my  steps,  my  seated  shape,  and 

has  for  years — 
Draws  sometimes  close  to  me,  as  face  to  face. 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY.  42  * 

THE  UNEXPRESS'D. 

How  dare  one  say  it  ? 

After  the  cycles,  poems,  singers,  plays, 

Vaunted   Ionia's,   India's — Homer,   Shakspere — the  long,  long 

times'  thick  dotted  roads,  areas, 
The  shining   clusters  and   the  Milky  Ways  of  stars — Nature's 

pulses  reap'd, 

All  retrospective  passions,  heroes,  war,  love,  adoration, 
All  ages'  plummets  dropt  to  their  utmost  depths, 
All  human  lives,  throats,  wishes,  brains — all  experiences'  utter- 

,ance ; 

After  the  countless  songs,  or  long  or  short,  all  tongues,  all  lands, 
Still  something  not  yet  told  in  poesy's  voice  or  print — something 

lacking, 
(Who  knows  ?  the  best  yet  unexpress'd  and  lacking.) 

GRAND  IS  THE  SEEN. 

GRAND  is  the  seen,  the  light,  to  me — grand  are  the  sky  and 
stars, 

Grand  is  the  earth,  and  grand  are  lasting  time  and  space, 

And  grand  their  laws,  so  multiform,  puzzling,  evolutionary ; 

But  grander  far  the  unseen  soul  of  me,  comprehending,  endow 
ing  all  those, 

Lighting  the  light,  the  sky  and  stars,  delving  the  earth,  sailing 
the  sea, 

(What  were  all  those,  indeed,  without  thee,  unseen  soul  ?  of 
what  amount  without  thee  ?) 

More  evolutionary,  vast,  puzzling,  O  my  soul ! 

More  multiform  far — more  lasting  thou  than  they. 

UNSEEN  BUDS. 

UNSEEN  buds,  infinite,  hidden  well, 

Under  the  snow  and  ice,  under  the  darkness,  in  every  square  or 

cubic  inch, 

Germinal,  exquisite,  in  delicate  lace,  microscopic,  unborn, 
Like  babes  in  wombs,  latent,  folded,  compact,  sleeping ; 
Billions  of  billions,  and  trillions  of  trillions  of  them  waiting, 
(On  earth  and  in  the  sea — the  universe — the  stars  there  in  the 

heavens,) 

Urging  slowly,  surely  forward,  forming  endless, 
And  waiting  ever  more,  forever  more  behind. 


422  LEAVES  OF  GRASS* 

GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY! 

GOOD-BYE  my  Fancy ! 

Farewell  dear  mate,  dear  love ! 

I'm  going  away,  I  know  not  where, 

Or  to  what  fortune,  or  whether  I  may  ever  see  you  again, 

So  Good-bye  my  Fancy. 

Now  for  my  last — let  me  look  back  a  moment ; 
The  slower  fainter  ticking  of  the  clock  is  in  me, 
Exit,  nightfall,  and  soon  the  heart-thud  stopping. 

Long  have  we  lived,  joy'd,  caress'd  together; 
Delightful ! — now  separation — Good-bye  my  Fancy. 

Yet  let  me  not  be  too  hasty, 

Long  indeed  have  we  lived,  slept,  filter'd,  become  really  blended 

into  one ; 

Then  if  we  die  we  die  together,  (yes,  we'll  remain  one,) 
If  we  go  anywhere  we'll  go  together  to  meet  what  happens, 
May-be  we'll  be  better  off  and  blither,  and  learn  something, 
May-be  it  is  yourself  now  really  ushering  me  to  the  true  songs, 

(who  knows  ?) 
May-be  it  is  you  the  mortal  knob  really  undoing,  turning — so 

now  finally, 
Good-bye — and  hail  1  my  Fancy. 


OLD   AGE    ECHOES 

{POSTHUMOUS  ADDITIONS} 


AN  EXECUTOR'S   DIARY   NOTE,   1891. 

I  said  to  W.  W.  to-day :  "  Though  you  have  put  the  finishing  touches  on  the 
1  Leaves,'  closed  them  with  your  good-by,  you  will  go  on  living  a  year  or  two  longer 
and  writing  more  poems.  The  question  is,  what  will  you  do  with  these  poems 
when  the  time  comes  to  fix  their  place  in  the  volume  ? "  "  Do  with  them  ?  I  am 
not  unprepared  —  I  have  even  contemplated  that  emergency  —  I  have  a  title  in 
reserve :  Old  Age  Echoes  —  applying  not  so  much  to  things  as  to  echoes  of  things, 
reverberant,  an  aitermath."  "  You  have  dropt  enough  by  the  roadside,  as  you 
went  along,  from  different  editions,  to  make  a  volume.  Some  day  the  world  will 
demand  to  have  that  put  together  somewhere."  "  Do  you  think  it  ? "  "  Certainly. 
Should  you  put  it  under  ban  ? "  "  Why  should  I  —  how  could  I  ?  So  far  as  you 
may  have  anything  to  do  with  it  I  place  upon  you  the  injunction  that  whatever  may 
be  added  to  the  '  Leaves '  shall  be  supplementary,  avowed  as  such,  leaving  the  book 
complete  as  I  left  it,  consecutive  to  the  point  I  left  off,  marking  always  an  unmistak 
able,  deep  down,  unobliteratable  division  line.  In  the  long  run  the  world  will  do  as 
it  pleases  with  the  book.  I  am  determined  to  have  the  world  know  what  I  was 
pleased  to  do." 

Here  is  a  late  personal  note  from  W.  W. :  "  My  tho't  is  to  collect  a  lot  of  prose 
and  poetry  pieces  —  small  or  smallish  mostly,  but  a  few  larger  —  appealing  to  the 
good  will,  the  heart  —  sorrowful  ones  not  rejected  —  but  no  morbid  ones  given." 

There  is  no  reason  for  doubt  that  A  Thought  of  Columbus,  closing  "  Old  Age 
Echoes,"  was  W.  W's  last  deliberate  composition,  dating  December,  1891. 


OLD  AGE  ECHOES. 


TO  SOAR  IN  FREEDOM  AND  IN  FULLNESS  OF  POWER. 

I   HAVE  not  so  much  emulated  the  birds  that  musically  sing, 
I  have  abandon'd  myself  to  flights,  broad  circles. 
The  hawk,  the  seagull,  have  far  more  possess'd  me  than  the 

canary  or  mocking-bird. 

I  have  not  felt  to  warble  and  trill,  however  sweetly, 
I  have  felt  to  soar  in  freedom  and  in  the  fullness  of  power, 
joy,  volition. 

THEN   SHALL   PERCEIVE. 

IN  softness,  languor,  bloom,  and  growth, 

Thine  eyes,  ears,   all  thy  sense  —  thy  loftiest  attribute  —  all 

that  takes  cognizance  of  beauty, 
Shall  rouse  and  fill  —  then  shall  perceive  1 


THE   FEW   DROPS   KNOWN. 

OF  heroes,  history,  grand  events,  premises,  myths,  poems, 
The  few  drops  known  must  stand  for  oceans  of  the  unknown, 
On   this  beautiful  and  thick  peopl'd  earth,  here  and  there  a 

little  specimen  put  on  record, 
A  little  of  Greeks  and  Romans,  a  few  Hebrew  canticles,  a  few 

death  odors  as  from  graves,  from  Egypt  — 
What  are  they  to  the  long  and  copious  retrospect  of  antiquity  ? 


ONE  THOUGHT  EVER  AT  THE  FORE. 

ONE  thought  ever  at  the  fore  — 

That   in   the   Divine    Ship,   the  World,  breasting   Time   and 

Space, 
All  Peoples  of  the  globe  together  sail,  sail  the  same  voyage, 

are  bound  to  the  same  destination. 


426  LEAVES  OP  GRASS. 

WHILE   BEHIND  ALL  FIRM   AND   ERECT. 

WHILE  behind  all,  firm  and  erect  as  ever, 

Undismay'd  amid  the  rapids  —  amid  the  irresistible  and  deadly 

urge, 
Stands  a  helmsman,  with  brow  elate  and  strong  hand. 

A  KISS   TO   THE   BRIDE. 

Marriage  of  Nelly  Grant,  May  21,  2874. 

SACRED,  blithesome,  undenied, 

With  benisons  from  East  and  West, 

And  salutations  North  and  South, 

Through  me  indeed  to-day  a  million  hearts  and  hands, 

Wafting  a  million  loves,  a  million  soul  felt  prayers  ; 

—  Tender  and  true  remain  the  arm  that  shields  thee  ! 

Fair  winds  always  fill  the  ship's  sails  that  sail  thee ! 

Clear  sun  by  day,  and  light  stars  at  night,  beam  on  thee  I 

Dear  girl  —  through  me  the  ancient  privilege  too, 

For  the  New  World,  through  me,  the  old,  old  wedding  greeting: 

O  youth  and  health  !    O  sweet  Missouri  rose  1    O  bonny  bride  ! 

Yield  thy  red  cheeks,  thy  lips,  to-day, 

Unto  a  Nation's  loving  kiss. 

NAY,   TELL  ME    NOT   TO-DAY   THE   PUBLISH'D    SHAME. 

Winter  of  1873,  Congress  in  Session. 

NAY,  tell  me  not  to-day  the  publish'd  shame, 

Read  not  to-day  the  journal's  crowded  page, 

The  merciless  reports  still  branding  forehead  after  forehead, 

The  guilty  column  following  guilty  column. 

To-day  to  me  the  tale  refusing, 
Turning  from  it  —  from  the  white  capitol  turning, 
Far  from  these  swelling  domes,  topt  with  statues, 
More  endless,  jubilant,  vital  visions  rise 
Unpublish'd,  unreported. 

Through  all  your  quiet  ways,  or  North  or  South,  you  Equal 

States,  you  honest  farms, 
Your  million  untold  manly  healthy  lives,  or  East  or  West,  city 

or  country, 

Your  noiseless  mothers,  sisters,  wives,  unconscious  of  their  good, 
Your  mass  of   homes   nor   poor   nor   rich,   in   visions   rise  — 

(even  your  excellent  poverties,) 


OLD  AGE  ECHOES.  427 

Your  self-distilling,  never-ceasing  virtues,  self-denials,  graces, 
Your  endless  base  of  deep  integrities  within,  timid  but  certain, 
Your  blessings  steadily  bestow'd,  sure  as  the  light,  and  still, 
(Plunging  to  these  as  a  determin'd  diver  down  the  deep  hidden 

waters), 
These,  these   to-day  I   brood  upon  —  all  else   refusing,  these 

will  I  con, 
To-day  to  these  give  audience. 


SUPPLEMENT  HOURS. 

SANE,  random,  negligent  hours, 

Sane,  easy,  culminating  hours, 

After  the  flush,  the  Indian  summer,  of  my  life, 

Away  from  Books  —  away  from  Art —  the  lesson  learn'd,  pass'd 

o'er, 

Soothing,  bathing,  merging  all  —  the  sane,  magnetic. 
Now  for  the  day  and  night  themselves  —  the  open  air, 
Now  for  the  fields,  the  seasons,  insects,  trees  —  the  rain  and 

snow, 

Where  wild  bees  flitting  hum, 

Or  August  mulleins  grow,  or  winter's  snowflakes  fall, 
Or  stars  in  the  skies  roll  round  — 
The  silent  sun  and  stars. 


OF  MANY  A   SMUTCH'D   DEED   REMINISCENT. 

FULL  of  wickedness,  I  —  of  many  a  smutch'd  deed  reminiscent 

—  of  worse  deeds  capable, 
Yet  I  look  composedly  upon  nature,  drink  day  and  night  the 

joys  of  life,  and  await  death  with  perfect  equanimity, 
Because  of  my  tender  and  boundless  love  for  him  I  love  and 

because  of  his  boundless  love  for  me. 


TO   BE  AT  ALL. 
(Cf.  Stanza  27,  Song  of  Myself,/.^.) 

To  be  at  all  —  what  is  better  than  that  ? 

I  think  if  there  were  nothing  more  developed,  the  clam  in  its 

callous  shell  in  the  sand  were  august  enough. 
I  am  not  in  any  callous  shell ; 
I  am  cased  with  supple  conductors,  all  over 
They  take  every  object  by  the  hand,  and  lead  it  within  me ; 
28 


428  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

They  are  thousands,  each  one  with  his  entry  to  himself ; 

They  are  always  watching  with  their  little  eyes,  from  my  head 
to  my  feet ; 

One  no  more  than  a  point  lets  in  and  out  of  me  such  bliss  and 
magnitude, 

I  think  I  could  lift  the  girder  of  the  house  away  if  it  lay  be 
tween  me  and  whatever  I  wanted. 


DEATH'S  VALLEY. 

To  accompany  a  picture  ;  by  request.  "The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death," 
from  the  painting  by  George  Jnness. 

NAY,  do  not  dream,  designer  dark, 

Thou  hast  portray'd  or  hit  thy  theme  entire; 

I,  hoverer  of  late  by  this  dark  valley,  by  its  confines,  having 

glimpses  of  it, 
Here  enter  lists  with  thee,  claiming  my  right  to  make  a  symbol 

too. 

For  I  have  seen  many  wounded  soldiers  die, 
After  dread    suffering  —  have  seen  their  lives  pass  off  with 

smiles ; 
And  I  have  watch'd  the  death-hours  of  the  old ;  and  seen  the 

infant  die ; 

The  rich,  with  all  his  nurses  and  his  doctors ; 
And  then  the  poor,  in  meagreness  and  poverty ; 
And   I   myself   for   long,  O    Death,  have  breath'd  my  every 

breath 
Amid  the  nearness  and  the  silent  thought  of  thee. 


And  out  of  these  and  thee, 

I  make  a  scene,  a  song  (not  fear  of  thee, 

Nor  gloom's  ravines,  nor  bleak,  nor  dark  —  for  I  do  not  fear 
thee, 

Nor  celebrate  the  struggle,  or  contortion,  or  hard-tied  knot), 

Of  the  broad  blessed  light  and  perfect  air,  with  meadows,  rip 
pling  tides,  and  trees  and  flowers  and  grass, 

And  the  low  hum  of  living  breeze  —  and  in  the  midst  God's 
beautiful  eternal  right  hand, 

Thee,  holiest  minister  of  Heaven  —  thee,  envoy,  usherer,  guide 
at  last  of  all, 

Rich,  florid,  loosener  of  the  stricture-knot  call'd  life, 

Sweet,  peaceful,  welcome  Death. 


OLD  AGE  ECHOES.  429 

ON   THE   SAME   PICTURE. 

Intended  for  first  stanza  of  "  Death's   Valley." 

well  I  know  'tis  ghastly  to  descend  that  valley : 
Preachers,  musicians,  poets,  painters,  always  render  it, 
Philosophs  exploit  —  the  battlefield,  the  ship  at  sea,  the  myriad 

beds,  all  lands, 

All,  all  the  past  have  enter'd,  the  ancientest  humanity  we  know, 
Syria's,  India's,  Egypt's,  Greece's,  Rome's  ; 
Till  now  for  us  under  our  very  eyes  spreading  the  same  to-day, 
Grim,  ready,  the  same  to-day,  for  entrance,  yours  and  mine, 
Here,  here  'tis  limn'd. 

A  THOUGHT   OF  COLUMBUS. 

THE   mystery  of  mysteries,  the   crude  and   hurried  ceaseless 

flame,  spontaneous,  bearing  on  itself. 
The  bubble  and  the  huge,  round,  concrete  orb ! 
A  breath  of  Deity,  as  thence  the  bulging  universe  unfolding ! 
The  many  issuing  cycles  from  their  precedent  minute ! 
The  eras  of  the  soul  incepting  in  an  hour, 
Haply  the  widest,  farthest  evolutions  of  the  world  and  man. 

Thousands  and  thousands  of  miles  hence,  and  now  four  cen 
turies  back, 

A  mortal  impulse  thrilling  its  brain  cell, 

Reck'd  or  unreck'd,  the  birth  can  no  longer  be  postpon'd : 

A  phantom  of  the  moment,  mystic,  stalking,  sudden, 

Only  a  silent  thought,  yet  toppling  down  of  more  than  walls  of 
brass  or  stone. 

(A  flutter  at  the  darkness'  edge  as  if  old  Time's  and  Space's 
secret  near  revealing.) 

A  thought !  a  definite  thought  works  out  in  shape. 

Four  hundred  years  roll  on. 

The  rapid  cumulus  —  trade,  navigation,  war,  peace,  democracy, 
roll  on  ; 

The  restless  armies  and  the  fleets  of  time  following  their  leader 
—  the  old  camps  of  ages  pitch'd  in  newer,  larger  areas, 

The  tangl'd,  long-deferr'd  eclaircissement  of  human  life  and, 
hopes  boldly  begins  untying, 

As  here  to-day  up-grows  the  Western  World. 

(An  added  word  yet  to  my  song,  far  Discoverer,  as  ne'er  before 
sent  back  to  son  of  earth  — • 


430  LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

If  still  thou  hearest,  hear  me, 

Voicing  as  now  —  lands,  races,  arts,  bravas  to  thee, 

O'er  the  long  backward  path  to  thee  —  one  vast  consensus, 

north,  south,  east,  west, 
Soul  plaudits  !  acclamation  !  reverent  echoes  ! 
One  manifold,  huge  memory  to  thee !  oceans  and  lands  1 
The  modern  world  to  thee  and  thought  of  thee ! ) 


A  BACKWARD  GLANCE 
O'ER  TRAVEL'D  ROADS 


FROM  "NOVEMBER  BOUGHS  *» 

COPYRIGHT,    1888 

BY 

WALT  WHITMAN 


A  BACKWARD  GLANCE  O  ER 
TRAVEL'D  ROADS. 


PERHAPS  the  best  of  songs  heard,  or  of  any  and  all  true 
love,  or  life's  fairest  episodes,  or  sailors',  soldiers'  trying 
scenes  on  land  or  sea,  is  the  resume  of  them,  or  any  of  them, 
long  afterwards,  looking  at  the  actualities  away  back  past,  with 
all  their  practical  excitations  gone.  How  the  soul  loves  to 
float  amid  such  reminiscences! 

So  here  I  sit  gossiping  in  the  early  candle-light  of  old  age  —  I 
and  my  book  —  casting  backward  glances  over  our  travel'd  road. 
After  completing,  as  it  were,  the  journey  —  (a  varied  jaunt  of 
years,  with  many  halts  and  gaps  of  intervals — or  some  lengthen'd 
ship-voyage,  wherein  more  than  once  the  last  hour  had  apparently 
arrived,  and  we  seem'd  certainly  going  down — yet  reaching  port 
in  a  sufficient  way  through  all  discomfitures  at  last)  — After  com 
pleting  my  poems,  I  am  curious  to  review  them  in  the  light  of 
their  own  (at  the  time  unconscious,  or  mostly  unconscious)  inten 
tions,  with  certain  unfoldings  of  the  thirty  years  they  seek  to 
embody.  These  lines,  therefore,  will  probably  blend  the  weft 
of  first  purposes  and  speculations,  with  the  warp  of  that  expe 
rience  afterwards,  always  bringing  strange  developments. 

Result  of  seven  or  eight  stages  and  struggles  extending  through 
nearly  thirty  years,  (as  I  nigh  my  three-score-and-ten  I  live 
largely  on  memory,)  I  look  upon  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  now  fin- 
ish'd  to  the  end  of  its  opportunities  and  powers,  as  my  definitive 
carte  visite  to  the  coming  generations  of  the  New  World,*  if  I 
may  assume  to  say  so.  That  I  have  not  gain'd  the  acceptance  of 
my  own  time,  but  have  fallen  back  on  fond  dreams  of  the  future 
—  anticipations  —  ("  still  lives  the  song,  though  Regnar  dies  ")  — 
That  from  a  worldly  and  business  point  of  view  "  Leaves  ol 
Grass  "  has  been  worse  than  a  failure  —  that  public  criticism  on 
the  book  and  myself  as  author  of  it  yet  shows  mark'd  anger  and 
contempt  more  than  anything  else —  ("  I  find  a  solid  line  of  ene- 

*  When  Champollion,  on  his  death-bed,  handed  to  the  printer  the  revised 
proof  of  his  "  Egyptian  Grammar,"  he  said  gayly,  "Be  careful  of  this — it  is 
my  carte  de  visite  to  posterity." 

;433 


434         A  BACKWARD  GLANCE  O'ER  TRAVELED  ROADS. 


mies  to  you  everywhere," — letter  from  W.  S.  K.,  Boston,  May 
28,  1884) — And  that  solely  for  publishing  it  I  have  been  the 
object  of  two  or  three  pretty  serious  special  official  buffetings — is 
all  probably  no  more  than  I  ought  to  have  expected.  I  had  my 
choice  when  I  commenc'd.  I  bid  neither  for  soft  eulogies,  big 
money  returns,  nor  the  approbation  of  existing  schools  and  con 
ventions.  As  fulfill'd,  or  partially  fulfill'd,  the  best  comfort  of 
the  whole  business  (after  a  small  band  of  the  dearest  friends  and 
upholders  ever  vouchsafed  to  man  or  cause — doubtless  all  the  more 
faithful  and  uncompromising — this  little  phalanx  ! — for  being  so 
few)  is  that,  unstopp'd  and  unwarp'd  by  any  influence  outside  the 
soul  within  me,  I  have  had  my  say  entirely  my  own  way,  and  put 
it  unerringly  on  record — the  value  thereof  to  be  decided  by  time. 

In  calculating  that  decision,  William  O'Connor  and  Dr.  Bucke 
are  far  more  peremptory  than  I  am.  Behind  all  else  that  can  be 
said,  I  consider  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  and  its  theory  experimental 
— as,  in  the  deepest  sense,  1  consider  our  American  republic 
itself  to  be,  with  its  theory.  (I  think  I  have  at  least  enough 
philosophy  not  to  be  too  absolutely  certain  of  any  thing,  or  any 
results.)  In  the  second  place,  the  volume  is  a  sortie — whether  to 
prove  triumphant,  and  conquer  its  field  of  aim  and  escape  and 
construction,  nothing  less  than  a  hundred  years  from  now  can 
fully  answer.  I  consider  the  point  that  I  have  positively  gain'd 
a  hearing,  to  far  more  than  make  up  for  any  and  all  other  lacks 
and  withholdings.  Essentially,  that  was  from  the  first,  and  has 
remain'd  throughout,  the  main  object.  Now  it  seems  to  be 
achieved,  I  am  certainly  contented  to  waive  any  otherwise 
momentous  drawbacks,  as  of  little  account.  Candidly  and  dis 
passionately  reviewing  all  my  intentions,  I  feel  that  they  were 
creditable — and  I  accept  the  result,  whatever  it  may  be. 

After  continued  personal  ambition  and  effort,  as  a  young  fel 
low,  to  enter  with  the  rest  into  competition  for  the  usual  rewards, 
business,  political,  literary,  &c. — to  take  part  in  the  great  melee, 
both  for  victory's  prize  itself  and  to  do  some  good — After  years 
of  those  aims  and  pursuits,  I  found  myself  remaining  possess'd, 
at  the  age  of  thirty-one  to  thirty-three,  with  a  special  desire  and 
conviction.  Or  rather,  to  be  quite  exact,  a  desire  that  had  been 
flitting  through  my  previous  life,  or  hovering  on  the  flanks, 
mostly  indefinite  hitherto,  had  steadily  advanced  to  the  front, 
defined  itself,  and  finally  dominated  everything  else.  This  was 
a  feeling  or  ambition  to  articulate  and  faithfully  express  in  liter 
ary  or  poetic  form,  and  uncompromisingly,  my  own  physical, 
emotional,  moral,  intellectual,  and  aesthetic  Personality,  in  the 
midst  of,  and  tallying,  the  momentous  spirit  and  facts  of  its  im 
mediate  days,  and  of  current  America — and  to  exploit  that  Per- 


A  BACKWARD  GLANCE  O'EX  TRAVELED  ROADS.        435 

TraHatc  dayo,  and  of  current  America and  to  exploit  that  For. 

sonality,  identified  with  place  and  date,  in  a  far  more  candid 
and  comprehensive  sense  than  any  hitherto  poem  or  book. 

Perhaps  this  is  in  brief,  or  suggests,  all  I  have  sought  to  do. 
Given  the  Nineteenth  Century,  with  the  United  States,  and  what 
they  furnish  as  area  and  points  of  view,  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  is,  or 
seeks  to  be,  simply  a  faithful  and  doubtless  self-will'd  record. 
In  the  midst  of  all,  it  gives  one  man's  —  the  author's  —  identity, 
ardors,  observations,  faiths,  and  thoughts,  color'd  hardly  at  all 
with  any  decided  coloring  from  other  faiths  or  other  identities. 
Plenty  of  songs  had  been  sung  —  beautiful,  matchless  songs  — 
adjusted  to  other  lands  than  these  —  another  spirit  and  stage  of 
evolution  ;  but  I  would  sing,  and  leave  out  or  put  in,  quite  solely 
with  reference  to  America  and  to-day.  Modern  science  and  de 
mocracy  seem'd  to  be  throwing  out  their  challenge  to  poetry  to 
put  them  in  its  statements  in  contradistinction  to  the  songs  and 
myths  of  the  past.  As  I  see  it  now  (perhaps  too  late,)  I  have 
unwittingly  taken  up  that  challenge  and  made  an  attempt  at 
such  statements  —  which  I  certainly  would  not  assume  to  do 
now,  knowing  more  clearly  what  it  means. 

For  grounds  for  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  as  a  poem,  I  abandon'd 
the  conventional  themes,  which  do  not  appear  in  it :  none  of 
the  stock  ornamentation,  or  choice  plots  of  love  or  war,  or 
high,  exceptional  personages  of  Old-World  song ;  nothing,  as  I 
may  say,  for  beauty's  sake  —  no  legend,  or  myth,  or  romance, 
nor  euphemism,  nor  rhyme.  But  the  broadest  average  of  hu 
manity  and  its  identities  in  the  now  ripening  Nineteenth  Century, 
and  especially  in  each  of  their  countless  examples  and  practical 
occupations  in  the  United  States  to-day. 

One  main  contrast  of  the  ideas  behind  every  page  of  my 
verses,  compared  with  establish'd  poems,  is  their  different  rela 
tive  attitude  towards  God,  towards  the  objective  universe,  and 
still  more  (by  reflection,  confession,  assumption,  &c.)  the  quite 
changed  attitude  of  the  ego,  the  one  chanting  or  talking,  towards 
himself  and  towards  his  fellow-humanity.  It  is  certainly  time 
for  America,  above  all,  to  begin  this  readjustment  in  the  scope 
and  basic  point  of  view  of  verse;  for  everything  else  has 
changed.  As  I  write,  I  see  in  an  article  on  Wordsworth,  in  one 
of  the  current  English  magazines,  the  lines,  "A  few  weeks  ago 
an  eminent  French  critic  said  that,  owing  to  the  special  ten 
dency  to  science  and  to  its  all-devouring  force,  poetry  would 
cease  to  be  read  in  fifty  years."  But  I  anticipate  the  very  con 
trary.  Only  a  firmer,  vastly  broader,  new  area  begins  to  exist 
—  nay,  is  already  form'd  —  to  which  the  poetic  genius  must 
emigrate.  Whatever  may  have  been  the  case  in  years  gone  by, 


436        A  BACKWARD  GLANCE  O'ER  TRAVELED  ROADS. 

the  true  use  for  the  imaginative  faculty  of  modern  times  is  to 
give  ultimate  vivification  to  facts,  to  science,  and  to  common 
lives,  endowing  them  with  the  glows  and  glories  and  final  illus- 
triousness  which  belong  to  every  real  thing,  and  to  real  things 
only.  Without  that  ultimate  vivification  —  which  the  poet  or 
other  artist  alone  can  give  —  reality  would  seem  incomplete, 
and  science,  democracy,  and  life  itself,  finally  in  vain. 

Few  appreciate  the  moral  revolutions,  our  age,  which  have 
been  profounder  far  than  the  material  or  inventive  or  war-pro 
duced  ones.  The  Nineteenth  Century,  now  well  towards  its 
close  (and  ripening  into  fruit  the  seeds  of  the  two  preceding 
centuries*)  —  the  uprisings  of  national  masses  and  shiftings  of 
boundary-lines  —  the  historical  and  other  prominent  facts  of  the 
United  States  —  the  war  of  attempted  Secession  —  the  stormy 
rush  and  haste  of  nebulous  forces  —  never  can  future  years 
witness  more  excitement  and  din  of  action  —  never  completer 
change  of  army  front  along  the  whole  line,  the  whole  civilized 
world.  For  all  these  new  and  evolutionary  facts,  meanings, 
purposes,  new  poetic  messages,  new  forms  and  expressions,  are 
inevitable. 

My  Book  and  I  —  what  a  period  we  have  presumed  to  span  ! 
those  thirty  years  from  1850  to  '80  —  and  America  in  them! 
Proud,  proud  indeed  may  we  be,  if  we  have  culPd  enough  of 
that  period  in  its  own  spirit  to  worthily  waft  a  few  live  breaths 
of  it  to  the  future  ! 

Let  me  not  dare,  here  or  anywhere,  for  my  own  purposes,  or 
any  purposes,  to  attempt  the  definition  of  Poetry,  nor  answer 
the  question  what  it  is.  Like  Religion,  Love,  Nature,  while 
those  terms  are  indispensable,  and  we  all  give  a  sufficiently 
accurate  meaning  to  them,  in  my  opinion  no  definition  that  has 
ever  been  made  sufficiently  encloses  the  name  Poetry ;  nor  can 
any  rule  or  convention  ever  so  absolutely  obtain  but  some 
great  exception  may  arise  and  disregard  and  overturn  it. 

Also  it  must  be  carefully  remember'd  that  first-class  literature 
does  not  shine  by  any  luminosity  of  its  own ;  nor  do  its  poems. 
They  grow  of  circumstances,  and  are  evolutionary.  The  actual 
living  light  is  always  curiously  from  elsewhere  —  follows  unac 
countable  sources,  and  is  lunar  and  relative  at  the  best.  There 
are,  I  know,  certain  controlling  themes  that  seem  endlessly  ap- 

*  The  ferment  and  germination  even  of  the  United  States  to-day,  dating 
back  to,  and  in  my  opinion  mainly  founded  on,  the  Elizabethan  age  in  Eng 
lish  history,  the  age  of  Francis  Bacon  and  Shakspere.  Indeed,  when  we 
pursue  it,  what  growth  or  advent  is  there  that  does  not  date  back,  back,  until 
lost  —  perhaps  its  most  tantalizing  clues  lost  —  in  the  receded  horizons  of  the 
cast? 


A  BACKWARD  GLANCE  O'ER  TRAVELED  ROADS.        437 

propriated  to  the  poets  —  as  war,  in  the  past  —  in  the  Bible, 
religious  rapture  and  adoration  —  always  love,  beauty,  some 
fine  plot,  or  pensive  or  other  emotion.  But,  strange  as  it  may 
sound  at  first,  I  will  say  there  is  something  striking  far  deeper 
and  towering  far  higher  than  those  themes  for  the  best  elements 
of  modern  song. 

Just  as  all  the  old  imaginative  works  rest,  after  their  kind,  on 
long  trains  of  presuppositions,  often  entirely  unmention'd  by 
themselves,  yet  supplying  the  most  important  bases  of  them, 
and  without  which  they  could  have  had  no  reason  for  being,  so 
"  Leaves  of  Grass,"  before  a  line  was  written,  presupposed  some 
thing  different  from  any  other,  and,  as  it  stands,  is  the  result  of 
such  presupposition.  I  should  say,  indeed,  it  were  useless  to 
attempt  reading  the  book  without  first  carefully  tallying  that 
preparatory  background  and  quality  in  the  mind.  Think  of  the 
United  States  to-day  —  the  facts  of  these  thirty-eight  or  forty 
empires  solder'd  in  one  —  sixty  or  seventy  millions  of  equals, 
with  their  lives,  their  passions,  their  future  —  these  incalculable, 
modern,  American,  seething  multitudes  around  us,  of  which  we 
are  inseparable  parts  !  Think,  in  comparison,  of  the  petty  en- 
vironage  and  limited  area  of  the  poets  of  past  or  present  Europe, 
no  matter  how  great  their  genius.  Think  of  the  absence  and  ig 
norance,  in  all  cases  hitherto,  of  the  multitudinousness,  vitality, 
and  the  unprecedented  stimulants  of  to-day  and  here.  It  almost 
seems  as  if  a  poetry  with  cosmic  and  dynamic  features  of  mag 
nitude  and  limitlessness  suitable  to  the  human  soul,  were  never 
possible  before.  It  is  certain  that  a  poetry  of  absolute  faith 
and  equality  for  the  use  of  the  democratic  masses  never  was. 

In  estimating  first-class  song,  a  sufficient  Nationality,  or,  on 
the  other  hand,  what  may  be  call'd  the  negative  and  lack  of  it, 
(as  in  Goethe's  case,  it  sometimes  seems  to  me,)  is  often,  if  not 
always,  the  first  element.  One  needs  only  a  little  penetration 
to  see,  at  more  or  less  removes,  the  material  facts  of  their  coun 
try  and  radius,  with  the  coloring  of  the  moods  of  humanity  at 
the  time,  and  its  gloomy  or  hopeful  prospects,  behind  all  poets 
and  each  poet,  and  forming  their  birth-marks.  I  know  very 
well  that  my  "Leaves"  could  not  possibly  have  emerged  or 
been  fashion'd  or  completed,  from  any  other  era  than  the  latter 
half  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  nor  any  other  land  than  demo 
cratic  America,  and  from  the  absolute  triumph  of  the  National 
Union  arms. 

And  whether  my  friends  claim  it  for  me  or  not,  I  know  well 
enough,  too,  that  in  respect  to  pictorial  talent,  dramatic  situa 
tions,  and  especially  in  verbal  melody  and  all  the  conventional 
technique  of  poetry,  not  only  the  divine  works  that  to-day  stand 


438        A  BACKWARD  GLANCE  O'ER  TRAVELED  ROADS. 

ahead  in  the  world's  reading,  but  dozens  more,  transcend  (some 
of  them  immeasurably  transcend)  all  I  have  done,  or  could  do. 
But  it  seem'd  to  me,  as  the  objects  in  Nature,  the  themes  of 
aestheticism,  and  all  special  exploitations  of  the  mind  and  soul, 
involve  not  only  their  own  inherent  quality,  but  the  quality,  just 
as  inherent  and  important,  of  their  point  of  view*  the  time  had 
come  to  reflect  all  themes  and  things,  old  and  new,  in  the  lights 
thrown  on  them  by  the  advent  of  America  and  democracy  —  to 
chant  those  themes  through  the  utterance  of  one,  not  only  the 
grateful  and  reverent  legatee  of  the  past,  but  the  born  child  of 
the  New  World  —  to  illustrate  all  through  the  genesis  and  en 
semble  of  to-day;  and  that  such  illustration  and  ensemble  are 
the  chief  demands  of  America's  prospective  imaginative  litera 
ture.  Not  to  carry  out,  in  the  approved  style,  some  choice  plot 
of  fortune  or  misfortune,  or  fancy,  or  fine  thoughts,  or  incidents, 
or  courtesies  —  all  of  which  has  been  done  overwhelmingly  and 
well,  probably  never  to  be  excell'd — but  that  while  in  such 
aesthetic  presentation  of  objects,  passions,  plots,  thoughts,  &c., 
our  lands  and  days  do  not  want,  and  probably  will  never  have, 
anything  better  than  they  already  possess  from  the  bequests  of 
the  past,  it  still  remains  to  be  said  that  there  is  even  towards 
all  those  a  subjective  and  contemporary  point  of  view  appropri 
ate  to  ourselves  alone,  and  to  our  new  genius  and  environments, 
differing  from  anything  hitherto ;  and  that  such  conception  of 
current  or  gone-by  life  and  art  is  for  us  the  only  means  of  their 
assimilation  consistent  with  the  Western  world. 

Indeed,  and  anyhow,  to  put  it  specifically,  has  not  the  time 
arrived  when,  (if  it  must  be  plainly  said,  for  democratic  Amer 
ica's  sake,  if  for  no  other)  there  must  imperatively  come  a 
readjustment  of  the  whole  theory  and  nature  of  Poetry  ?  The 
question  is  important,  and  I  may  turn  the  argument  over  and 
repeat  it :  Does  not  the  best  thought  of  our  day  and  Republic 
conceive  of  a  birth  and  spirit  of  song  superior  to  anything  past 
or  present?  To  the  effectual  and  moral  consolidation  of  our 
lands  (already,  as  materially  establish'd,  the  greatest  factors  in 
known  history,  and  far,  far  greater  through  what  they  prelude 
and  necessitate,  and  are  to  be  in  future) — to  conform  with  and 
build  on  the  concrete  realities  and  theories  of  the  universe  fur- 
nish'd  by  science,  and  henceforth  the  only  irrefragable  basis 
for  anything,  verse  included  —  to  root  both  influences  in  the 
emotional  and  imaginative  action  of  the  modern  time,  and 
dominate  all  that  precedes  or  opposes  them  —  is  not  either  a 

*  According  to  Immanuel  Kant,  the  last  essential  reality,  giving  shape  and 
significance  to  all  the  rest. 


A  BACKWARD  GLANCE  O*ER  TRAVELED  ROADS.        439 

radical  advance  and  step  forward,  or  a  new  verteber  of  the  best 
song  indispensable  ? 

The  New  World  receives  with  joy  the  poems  of  the  antique 
with  European  feudalism's  rich  fund  of  epics,  plays,  ballads  — 
seeks  not  in  the  least  to  deaden  or  displace  those  voices  from  our 
ear  and  area — holds  them  indeed  as  indispensable  studies,  influ 
ences,  records,  comparisons.  But  though  the  dawn-dazzle  of 
the  sun  of  literature  is  in  those  poems  for  us  of  to-day  —  though 
perhaps  the  best  parts  of  current  character  in  nations,  social 
groups,  or  any  man's  or  woman's  individuality,  Old  World  or 
New,  are  from  them  —  and  though  if  I  were  ask'd  to  name  the 
most  precious  bequest  to  current  American  civilization  from  all 
the  hitherto  ages,  I  am  not  sure  but  I  would  name  those  old  and 
less  old  songs  ferried  hither  from  east  and  west — some  serious 
words  and  debits  remain ;  some  acrid  considerations  demand  a 
hearing.  Of  the  great  poems  receiv'd  from  abroad  and  from 
the  ages,  and  to-day  enveloping  and  penetrating  America,  is 
there  one  that  is  consistent  with  these  United  States,  or  essen 
tially  applicable  to  them  as  they  are  and  are  to  be  ?  Is  there 
one  whose  underlying  basis  is  not  a  denial  and  insult  to  democ 
racy  ?  What  a  comment  it  forms,  anyhow,  on  this  era  of  literary 
fulfilment,  with  the  splendid  day-rise  of  science  and  resuscita 
tion  of  history,  that  our  chief  religious  and  poetical  works  are 
not  our  own,  nor  adapted  to  our  light,  but  have  been  furnish'd 
by  far-back  ages  out  of  their  arriere  and  darkness,  or,  at  most, 
twilight  dimness  !  What  is  there  in  those  works  that  so  impe 
riously  and  scornfully  dominates  all  our  advanced  civilization, 
and  culture  ? 

Even  Shakspere,  who  so  suffuses  current  letters  and  art 
(which  indeed  have  in  most  degrees  grown  out  of  him,)  belongs 
essentially  to  the  buried  past.  Only  he  holds  the  proud  dis 
tinction  for  certain  important  phases  of  that  past,  of  being  the 
loftiest  of  the  singers  life  has  yet  given  voice  to.  All,  however, 
relate  to  and  rest  upon  conditions,  standards,  politics,  sociolo 
gies,  ranges  of  belief,  that  have  been  quite  eliminated  from  the 
Eastern  hemisphere,  and  never  existed  at  all  in  the  Western. 
As  authoritative  types  of  song  they  belong  in  America  just 
about  as  much  as  the  persons  and  institutes  they  depict.  True, 
it  may  be  said,  the  emotional,  moral,  and  aesthetic  natures  of 
humanity  have  not  radically  changed  —  that  in  these  the  old 
poems  apply  to  our  times  and  all  times,  irrespective  of  date ; 
and  that  they  are  of  incalculable  value  as  pictures  of  the  past. 
I  willingly  make  those  admissions,  and  to  their  fullest  extent ; 
then  advance  the  points  herewith  as  of  serious,  even  paramount 
importance. 


44°        A  BACKWARD  GLANCE  O'ER  TRAVELED  ROADS. 

I  have  indeed  put  on  record  elsewhere  my  reverence  and 
eulogy  for  those  never-to-be-excell'd  poetic  bequests,  and  their 
indescribable  preciousness  as  heirlooms  for  America.  Another 
and  separate  point  must  now  be  candidly  stated.  If  I  had  not 
stood  before  those  poems  with  uncover'd  head,  fully  aware  of 
their  colossal  grandeur  and  beauty  of  form  and  spirit,  I  could 
not  have  written  "  Leaves  of  Grass."  My  verdict  and  conclu 
sions  as  illustrated  in  its  pages  are  arrived  at  through  the  temper 
and  inculcation  of  the  old  works  as  much  as  through  anything 
else  —  perhaps  more  than  through  anything  else.  As  America 
fully  and  fairly  construed  is  the  legitimate  result  and  evolution 
ary  outcome  of  the  past,  so  I  would  dare  to  claim  for  my  verse. 
Without  stopping  to  qualify  the  averment,  the  Old  World  has 
had  the  poems  of  myths,  fictions,  feudalism,  conquest,  caste, 
dynastic  wars,  and  splendid  exceptional  characters  and  affairs, 
which  have  been  great ;  but  the  New  World  needs  the  poems 
of  realities  and  science  and  of  the  democratic  average  and 
basic  equality,  which  shall  be  greater.  In  the  centre  of  all,  and 
object  of  all,  stands  the  Human  Being,  towards  whose  heroic 
and  spiritual  evolution  poems  and  everything  directly  or  indi 
rectly  tend,  Old  World  or  New. 

Continuing  the  subject,  my  friends  have  more  than  once  sug 
gested —  or  may  be  the  garrulity  of  advancing  age  is  possessing 
me  —  some  further  embryonic  facts  of  "Leaves  of  Grass,"  and 
especially  how  I  enter'd  upon  them.  Dr.  Bucke  has,  in  his  vol 
ume,  already  fully  and  fairly  described  the  preparation  of  my 
poetic  field,  with  the  particular  and  general  plowing,  planting, 
seeding,  and  occupation  of  the  ground,  till  everything  was  fer 
tilized,  rooted,  and  ready  to  start  its  own  way  for  good  or  bad. 
Not  till  after  all  this,  did  I  attempt  any  serious  acquaintance 
with  poetic  literature.  Along  in  my  sixteenth  year  I  had  be 
come  possessor  of  a  stout,  well-cramm'd  one  thousand  page 
octavo  volume  (I  have  it  yet.)  containing  Walter  Scott's  poetry 
entire  —  an  inexhaustible  mine  and  treasury  of  poetic  forage 
(especially  the  endless  forests  and  jungles  of  notes)  —  has  been 
so  to  me  for  fifty  years,  and  remains  so  to  this  day.* 

*  Sir  Walter  Scott's  COMPLETE  POEMS  ;  especially  including  BORDER  MIN 
STRELSY  ;  then  Sir  Tristrem  ;  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  ;  Ballads  from  the  Ger 
man  ;  Marmion  ;  Lady  of  the  Lake  ;  Vision  of  Don  Roderick  ;  Lord  of  the 
Isles  ;  Rokeby;  Bridal  of  Trlermain  ;  Field  of  Waterloo  ;  Harold  the  Daunt 
less  ;  all  the  Dramas  ;  various  Introductions,  endless  interesting  Notes,  and 
Essays  on  Poetry,  Romance,  &c. 

Lockhart's  1833  (or  '34)  edition  with  Scott's  latest  and  copious  revisions 
and  annotations.  (All  the  poems  were  thoroughly  read  by  me,  but  the  bal 
lads  of  the  Border  Minstrelsy  over  and  over  again.) 


A  BACKWARD  GLANCE  O'ER  TRAVELED  ROADS.        441 

Later,  at  intervals,  summers  and  falls,  I  used  to  go  off,  some 
times  for  a  week  at  a  stretch,  down  in  the  country,  or  to  Long 
Island's  seashores  —  there,  in  the  presence  of  outdoor  influ 
ences,  I  went  over  thoroughly  the  Old  and  New  Testaments, 
and  absorb'd  (probably  to  better  advantage  for  me  than  in  any 
library  or  indoor  room  —  it  makes  such  difference  where  you 
read,)  Shakspere,  Ossian,  the  best  translated  versions  I  could 
get  of  Homer,  Eschylus,  Sophocles,  the  old  German  Nibelungen, 
the  ancient  Hindoo  poems,  and  one  or  two  other  masterpieces, 
Dante's  among  them.  As  it  happen'd,  I  read  the  latter  mostly 
in  an  old  wood.  The  Iliad  (Buckley's  prose  version,)  I  read  first 
thoroughly  on  the  peninsula  of  Orient,  northeast  end  of  Long 
Island,  in  a  shelter'd  hollow  of  rocks  and  sand,  with  the  sea  on 
each  side.  (I  have  wonder'd  since  why  I  was  not  overwhelm'd 
by  those  mighty  masters.  Likely  because  I  read  them,  as  de 
scribed,  in  the  full  presence  of  Nature,  under  the  sun,  with  the 
far-spreading  landscape  and  vistas,  or  the  sea  rolling  in.) 

Toward  the  last  I  had  among  much  else  look'd  over  Edgar 
Poe's  poems — of  which  I  was  not  an  admirer,  tho'  I  always 
saw  that  beyond  their  limited  range  of  melody  (like  perpetual 
chimes  of  music  bells,  ringing  from  lower  b  flat  up  to  g)  they 
were  melodious  expressions,  and  perhaps  never  excelFd  ones,  of 
certain  pronounc'd  phases  of  human  morbidity.  (The  Poetic 
area  is  very  spacious  —  has  room,  for  all  —  has  so  many  man 
sions  !)  But  I  was  repaid  in  Poe's  prose  by  the  idea  that  (at 
any  rate  for  our  occasions,  our  day)  there  can  be  no  such  thing 
as  a  long  poem.  The  same  thought  had  been  haunting  my 
mind  before,  but  Poe's  argument,  though  short,  work'd  the  sum 
and  proved  it  to  me. 

Another  point  had  an  early  settlement,  clearing  the  ground 
greatly.  I  saw,  from  the  time  my  enterprise  and  questionings 
positively  shaped  themselves  (how  best  can  I  express  my  own 
distinctive  era  and  surroundings,  America,  Democracy?)  that 
the  trunk  and  centre  whence  the  answer  was  to  radiate,  and  to 
which  all  should  return  from  straying  however  far  a  distance, 
must  be  an  identical  body  and  soul,  a  personality  —  which  per 
sonality,  after  many  considerations  and  ponderings  I  deliberately 
settled  should  be  myself — indeed  could  not  be  any  other.  I 
also  felt  strongly  (whether  I  have  shown  it  or  not)  that  to  the 
true  and  full  estimate  of  the  Present  both  the  Past  and  the 
Future  are  main  considerations. 

These,  however,  and  much  more  might  have  gone  on  and 
come  to  naught  (almost  positively  would  have  come  to  naught,) 
if  a  sudden,  vast,  terrible,  direct  and  indirect  stimulus  for  new 
and  national  declamatory  expression  had  not  been  given  to  me. 


442         A  BACKWARD  GLANCE  O'ER  TRAVELED  ROADS. 

It  is  certain,  I  say,  that,  although  I  had  made  a  start  before, 
only  from  the  occurrence  of  the  Secession  War,  and  what  it 
show'd  me  as  by  flashes  of  lightning,  with  the  emotional  depths 
it  sounded  and  arous'd  (of  course,  I  don't  mean  in  my  own 
heart  only,  I  saw  it  just  as  plainly  in  others,  in  millions)  —  that 
only  from  the  strong  flare  and  provocation  of  that  war's  sights 
and  scenes  the  final  reasons-for-being  of  an  autochthonic  and 
passionate  song  definitely  came  forth. 

I  went  down  to  the  war  fields  in  Virginia  (end  of  1862),  lived 
thenceforward  in  camp  —  saw  great  battles  and  the  days  and 
nights  afterward  —  partook  of  all  the  fluctuations,  gloom,  de 
spair,  hopes  again  arous'd,  courage  evoked  —  death  readily  risk'd 
—  the  cause,  too  —  along  and  filling  those  agonistic  and  lurid  fol 
lowing  years,  i863-'64~'65 — the  real  parturition  years  (more 
than  i776-'83)  of  this  henceforth  homogeneous  Union.  With 
out  those  three  or  four  years  and  the  experiences  they  gave, 
"  Leaves  of  Grass  "  would  not  now  be  existing. 

But  I  set  out  with  the  intention  also  of  indicating  or  hinting 
some  point-characteristics  which  I  since  see  (though  I  did  not 
then,  at  least  not  definitely)  were  bases  and  object-urgings  to 
ward  those  "  Leaves "  from  the  first.  The  word  I  myself  put 
primarily  for  the  description  of  them  as  they  stand  at  last,  is 
the  word  Suggestiveness.  I  round  and  finish  little,  if  anything ; 
and  could  not,  consistently  with  my  scheme.  The  reader  will 
always  have  his  or  her  part  to  do,  just  as  much  as  I  have  had 
mine.  I  seek  less  to  state  or  display  any  theme  or  thought, 
and  more  to  bring  you,  reader,  into  the  atmosphere  of  the  theme 
or  thought  —  there  to  pursue  your  own  flight.  Another  impe 
tus-word  is  Comradeship  as  for  all  lands,  and  in  a  more  com 
manding  and  acknowledg'd  sense  than  hitherto.  Other  word 
signs  would  be  Good  Cheer,  Content,  and  Hope. 

The  chief  trait  of  any  given  poet  is  always  the  spirit  he  brings 
to  the  observation  of  Humanity  and  Nature  —  the  mood  out  of 
which  he  contemplates  his  subjects.  What  kind  of  temper  and 
what  amount  of  faith  report  these  things  ?  Up  to  how  recent  a 
date  is  the  song  carried  ?  What  the  equipment,  and  special  raci- 
ness  of  the  singer  —  what  his  tinge  of  coloring  ?  The  last  value 
of  artistic  expressers,  past  and  present  —  Greek  aesthetes,  Shak- 
spere  —  or  in  our  own  day  Tennyson,  Victor  Hugo,  Carlyle,  Em 
erson  —  is  certainly  involv'd  in  such  questions.  I  say  the  pro- 
foundest  service  that  poems  or  any  other  writings  can  do  for 
their  reader  is  not  merely  to  satisfy  the  intellect,  or  supply  some 
thing  polish'd  and  interesting,  nor  even  to  depict  great  passions, 
or  persons  or  events,  but  to  fill  him  with  vigorous  and  clean 


A  BACKWARD  GLANCE  O'ER  TRAVEVD  ROADS.        443 

manliness,  religiousness,  and  give  him  good  heart  as  a  radical 
possession  and  habit.  The  educated  world  seems  to  have  been 
growing  more  and  more  ennuyed  for  ages,  leaving  to  our  time 
the  inheritance  of  it  all.  Fortunately  there  is  the  original  inex< 
haustible  fund  of  buoyancy,  normally  resident  in  the  race,  for 
ever  eligible  to  be  appeal'd  to  and  relied  on. 

As  for  native  American  individuality,  though  certain  to  come, 
and  on  a  large  scale,  the  distinctive  and  ideal  type  of  Western 
character  (as  consistent  with  the  operative  political  and  even 
money-making  features  of  United  States'  humanity  in  the  Nine 
teenth  Century  as  chosen  knights,  gentlemen  and  warriors  were 
the  ideals  of  the  centuries  of  European  feudalism)  it  has  not  yet 
appear'd.  I  have  allow'd  the  stress  of  my  poems  from  beginning 
to  end  to  bear  upon  American  individuality  and  assist  it — not 
only  because  that  is  a  great  lesson  in  Nature,  amid  all  her  gen 
eralizing  laws,  but  as  counterpoise  to  the  leveling  tendencies  of 
Democracy —  and  for  other  reasons.  Defiant  of  ostensible  liter 
ary  and  other  conventions,  I  avowedly  cTiant  "the  great  pride 
of  man  in  himself,"  and  permit  it  to  be  more  or  less  a  motif  of 
nearly  all  my  verse.  I  think  this  pride  indispensable  to  an 
American.  I  think  it  not  inconsistent  with  obedience,  humility, 
deference,  and  self-questioning. 

Democracy  has  been  so  retarded  and  jeopardized  by  powerful 
personalities,  that  its  first  instincts  are  fain  to  clip,  conform, 
bring  in  stragglers,  and  reduce  everything  to  a  dead  level. 
While  the  ambitious  thought  of  my  song  is  to  help  the  forming 
of  a  great  aggregate  Nation,  it  is,  perhaps,  altogether  through 
the  forming  of  myriads  of  fully  develop'd  and  enclosing  individ 
uals.  Welcome  as  are  equality's  and  fraternity's  doctrines  and 
popular  education,  a  certain  liability  accompanies  them  all,  as 
we  see.  That  primal  and  interior  something  in  man,  in  his 
soul's  abysms,  coloring  all,  and,  by  exceptional  fruitions,  giving 
the  last  majesty  to  him  —  something  continually  touch'd  upon 
and  attain'd  by  the  old  poems  and  ballads  of  feudalism,  and 
often  the  principal  foundation  of  them  —  modern  science  and 
democracy  appear  to  be  endangering,  perhaps  eliminating.  But 
that  forms  an  appearance  only;  the  reality  is  quite  different. 
The  new  influences,  upon  the  whole,  are  surely  preparing  the 
way  for  grander  individualities  than  ever.  To-day  and  here 
personal  force  is  behind  everything,  just  the  same.  The  times 
and  depictions  from  the  Iliad  to  Shakspere  inclusive  can  happily 
never  again  be  realized — but  the  elements  of  courageous  and 
lofty  manhood  are  unchanged. 

Without  yielding  an  inch  the  working-man  and  working- 
woman  were  to  be  in  my  pages  from  first  to  last.  The  ranges 


444        A  BACKWARD  GLANCE  O'ER  TRAVELED  ROADS. 

of  heroism  and  loftiness  with  which  Greek  and  feudal  poets  en- 
dow'd  their  god-like  or  lordly  born  characters  —  indeed  prouder 
and  better  based  and  with  fuller  ranges  than  those  —  I  was  to 
endow  the  democratic  averages  of  America.  I  was  to  show  that 
we,  here  and  to-day,  are  eligible  to  the  grandest  and  the  best  — 
more  eligible  now  than  any  times  of  old  were.  I  will  also  want 
my  utterances  (I  said  to  myself  before  beginning)  to  be  in  spirit 
the  poems  of  the  morning.  (They  have  been  founded  and 
mainly  written  in  the  sunny  forenoon  and  early  midday  of  my 
life.)  I  will  want  them  to  be  the  poems  of  women  entirely  as 
much  as  men.  I  have  wish'd  to  put  the  complete  Union  of  the 
States  in  my  songs  without  any  preference  or  partiality  whatever. 
Henceforth,  if  they  live  and  are  read,  it  must  be  just  as  much 
South  as  North  —  just  as  much  along  the  Pacific  as  Atlantic  — 
in  the  valley  of  the  Mississippi,  in  Canada,  up  in  Maine,  down 
in  Texas,  and  on  the  shores  of  Puget  Sound. 

From  another  point  of  view  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  is  avowedly 
the  song  of  Sex  and  Amativeness,  and  even  Animality  —  though 
meanings  that  do  not  usually  go  along  with  those  words  are  be 
hind  all,  and  will  duly  emerge ;  and  all  are  sought  to  be  lifted 
into  a  different  light  and  atmosphere.  Of  this  feature,  inten 
tionally  palpable  in  a  few  lines,  I  shall  only  say  the  espousing 
principle  of  those  lines  so  gives  breath  of  life  to  my  whole  scheme 
that  the  bulk  of  the  pieces  might  as  well  have  been  left  un 
written  were  those  lines  omitted.  Difficult  as  it  will  be,  it  has 
become,  in  my  opinion,  imperative  to  achieve  a  shifted  attitude 
from  superior  men  and  women  towards  the  thought  and  fact  of 
sexuality,  as  an  element  in  character,  personality,  the  emotions, 
and  a  theme  in  literature.  I  am  not  going  to  argue  the  ques 
tion  by  itself;  it  does  not  stand  by  itself.  The  vitality  of  it  is 
altogether  in  its  relations,  bearings,  significance  —  like  the  clef 
of  a  symphony.  At  last  analogy  the  lines  I  allude  to,  and  the 
spirit  in  which  they  are  spoken,  permeate  all  "  Leaves  of  Grass," 
and  the  work  must  stand  or  fall  with  them,  as  the  human  body 
and  soul  must  remain  as  an  entirety. 

Universal  as  are  certain  facts  and  symptoms  of  communities 
or  individuals  all  times,  there  is  nothing  so  rare  in  modern  con 
ventions  and  poetry  as  their  normal  recognizance.  Literature 
is  always  calling  in  the  doctor  for  consultation  and  confession, 
and  always  giving  evasions  and  swathing  suppressions  in  place 
of  that  "  heroic  nudity ''  *  on  which  only  a  genuine  diagnosis 
of  serious  cases  can  be  built.  And  in  respect  to  editions  of 
"  Leaves  of  Grass  "  in  time  to  come  (if  there  should  be  such) 

*  "  Nineteenth  Century,"  July,  1883. 


A  BACKWARD  GLANCE  O'ER  TRAVELED  ROADS.        445 

I  take  occasion  now  to  confirm  those  lines  with  the  settled  con 
victions  and  deliberate  renewals  of  thirty  years,  and  to  hereby 
prohibit,  as  far  as  word  of  mine  can  do  so,  any  elision  of  them. 

Then  still  a  purpose  enclosing  all,  and  over  and  beneath  all. 
Ever  since  what  might  be  call'd  thought,  or  the  budding  of 
thought,  fairly  began  in  my  youthful  mind,  I  had  had  a  desire 
to  attempt  some  worthy  record  of  that  entire  faith  and  accept 
ance  ("  to  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men  "  is  Milton's  well- 
known  and  ambitious  phrase)  which  is  the  foundation  of  moral 
America.  I  felt  it  all  as  positively  then  in  my  young  days  as  I 
do  now  in  my  old  ones  ;  to  formulate  a  poem  whose  every  thought 
or  fact  should  directly  or  indirectly  be  or  connive  at  an  implicit 
belief  in  the  wisdom,  health,  mystery,  beauty  of  every  process, 
every  concrete  object,  every  human  or  other  existence,  not  only 
consider'd  from  the  point  of  view  of  all,  but  of  each. 

While  I  can  not  understand  it  or  argue  it  out,  I  fully  believe 
in  a  clue  and  purpose  in  nature,  entire  and  several ;  and  that 
invisible  spiritual  results,  just  as  real  and  definite  as  the  visible, 
eventuate  all  concrete  life  and  all  materialism,  through  Time. 
My  book  ought  to  emanate  buoyancy  and  gladness  legitimately 
enough,  for  it  was  grown  out  of  those  elements,  and  has  been, 
the  comfort  of  my  life  since  it  was  originally  commenced. 

One  main  genesis-motive  of  the  "  Leaves  "  was  my  conviction 
(just  as  strong  to-day  as  ever)  that  the  crowning  growth  of  the 
United  States  is  to  be  spiritual  and  heroic.  To  help  start  and 
favor  that  growth  —  or  even  to  call  attention  to  it,  or  the  need 
of  it  —  is  the  beginning,  middle,  and  final  purpose  of  the  poems. 
(In  fact,  when  really  cipher'd  out  and  summ'd  to  the  last,  plow 
ing  up  in  earnest  the  interminable  average  fallows  of  humanity 
—  not  "good  government"  merely,  in  the  common  sense  —  is 
the  justification  and  main  purpose  of  these  United  States.) 

Isolated  advantages  in  any  rank  or  grace  or  fortune  —  the 
direct  or  indirect  threads  of  all  the  poetry  of  the  past  —  are  in 
my  opinion  distasteful  to  the  republican  genius,  and  offer  no 
foundation  for  its  fitting  verse.  Establish'd  poems,  I  know,  have 
the  very  great  advantage  of  chanting  the  already  perform'd,  so 
full  of  glories,  reminiscences  dear  to  the  minds  of  men.  But 
my  volume  is  a  candidate  for  the  future.  "  All  original  art," 
says  Taine,  anyhow,  "  is  self-regulated,  and  no  original  art  can 
be  regulated  from  without ;  it  carries  its  own  counterpoise,  and 
does  not  receive  it  from  elsewhere  —  lives  on  its  own  blood  "  — 
a  solace  to  my  frequent  bruises  and  sulky  vanity. 

As  the  present  is  perhaps  mainly  an  attempt  at  personal  state 
ment  or  illustration,  I  will  allow  myself  as  further  help  to  ex 
tract  the  following  anecdote  from  a  book,  "Annals  of  Old 


446        A  BACKWARD  GLANCE  O'ER  TRAVELED  ROADS. 

Painters,"  conn'd  by  me  in  youth.  Rubens,  the  Flemish  painter, 
in  one  of  his  wanderings  through  the  galleries  of  old  convents, 
came  across  a  singular  work.  After  looking  at  it  thoughtfully 
for  a  good  while,  and  listening  to  the  criticisms  of  his  suite  of 
students,  he  said  to  the  latter,  in  answer  to  their  questions  (as 
to  what  school  the  work  implied  or  belong'd,)  "  I  do  not  believe 
the  artist,  unknown  and  perhaps  no  longer  living,  who  has  given 
the  world  this  legacy,  ever  belong'd  to  any  school,  or  ever 
painted  anything  but  this  one  picture,  which  is  a  personal 
affair  —  a  piece  out  of  a  man's  life." 

"  Leaves  of  Grass  "  indeed  (I  cannot  too  often  reiterate)  has 
mainly  been  the  outcropping  of  my  own  emotional  and  other 
personal  nature  —  an  attempt,  from  first  to  last,  to  put  a  Person, 
a  human  being  (myself,  in  the  latter  half  of  the  Nineteenth 
Century,  in  America,)  freely,  fully  and  truly  on  record.  I  could 
not  find  any  similar  personal  record  in  current  literature  that 
satisfied  me.  But  it  is  not  on  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  distinctively 
as  literature,  or  a  specimen  thereof,  that  I  feel  to  dwell,  or  ad- 
vance  claims.  No  one  will  get  at  my  verses  who  insists  upon 
viewing  them  as  a  literary  performance,  or  attempt  at  such  per 
formance,  or  as  aiming  mainly  toward  art  or  aestheticism. 

I  say  no  land  or  people  or  circumstances  ever  existed  so 
needing  a  race  of  singers  and  poems  differing  from  all  others, 
and  rigidly  their  own,  as  the  land  and  people  and  circumstances 
of  our  United  States  need  such  singers  and  poems  to-day,  and 
for  the  future.  Still  further,  as  long  as  the  States  continue  to 
absorb  and  be  dominated  by  the  poetry  of  the  Old  World,  and 
remain  unsupplied  with  autochthonous  song,  to  express,  vitalize 
and  give  color  to  and  define  their  material  and  political  suc 
cess,  and  minister  to  them  distinctively,  so  long  will  they  stop 
ihort  of  first-class  Nationality  and  remain  defective. 

In  the  free  evening  of  my  day  I  give  to  you,  reader,  the 
foregoing  garrulous  talk,  thoughts,  reminiscences, 

As  idly  drifting  down  the  ebb, 

Such  ripples,  half -caught  voices,  echo  from  the  shore. 

Concluding  with  two  items  for  the  imaginative  genius  of  the 
West,  when  it  worthily  rises  —  First,  what  Herder  taught  to 
the  young  Goethe,  that  really  great  poetry  is  always  (like  the 
Homeric  or  Biblical  canticles)  the  result  of  a  national  spirit, 
and  not  the  privilege  of  a  polish'd  and  select  few  ;  Second,  that 
the  strongest  and  sweetest  songs  yet  remain  to  be  sung. 


INDEX   OF    FIRST    LINES 


PACK 

A  BATTER'D,  wreck'd  old  man 323 

Aboard  at  a  ship's  helm 205 

A  California  song        ..........  165 

A  carol  closing  sixty-nine  —  a  resume  —  a  repetition     ....  386 
Add  to  your  show,  before  you  close  it,  France      .         .         .         .         .413 

Adieu  O  Soldier 253 

Afoot  and  light-hearted  I  take  to  the  open  road  .....  I2O 

After  a  long,  long  course,  hundreds  of  years,  denials    ....  412 

After  a  week  of  physical  anguish          .......  403 

After  surmounting  threescore  and  ten  .         .         .         .         .         .         .410 

After  the  dazzle  of  day  is  gone     ........  388 

After  the  sea-ship,  after  the  whistling  winds          .....  209 

After  the  supper  and  talk  —  after  the  day  is  done          ....  404 

Ages  and  ages  returning  at  intervals     .......  92 

A  glimpse  through  an  interstice  caught 109 

A  great  year  and  place 188 

Ah  little  recks  the  laborer 157 

Ah,  not  this  marble,  dead  and  cold 393 

Ah,  poverties,  wincings,  and  sulky  retreats  ......  364 

Ah,  whispering,  something  again,  unseen     ......  414 

A  leaf  for  hand  in  hand       .........  109 

A  lesser  proof  than  old  Voltaire's,  yet  greater       .....  401 

A  line  in  long  array  where  they  wind  betwixt  green  islands  .         .         .  235 
All  submit  to  them  where  they  sit,  inner,  secure,  unapproachable  to 

analysis  in  the  soul       .........  305 

All  you  are  doing  and  saying  is  to  America  dangled  mirages  .         .215 

Always  our  old  feuillage      .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .138 

A  march  in  the  ranks  hard-prest,  and  the  road  unknown       .         .         .  239 
A  mask,  a  perpetual  natural  disguiser  of  herself    .         .         .         .         .217 

Amid  these  days  of  order,  ease,  prosperity  ......  400 

Among  the  men  and  women  the  multitude    .         .         .         .         .         .ill 

An  ancient  song,  reciting,  ending         .......  414 

And  now  gentlemen    ..........  IOI 

And  whence  and  why  come  you  ........  409 

And  who  art  thou?  said  I  to  the  soft-falling  shower      ....  399 

And  yet  not  you  alone,  twilight  and  burying  ebb           ....  390 

A  newer  garden  of  creation,  no  primal  solitude    .....  310 

A  noiseless  patient  spider     .........  343 

An  old  man  bending  I  come  among  new  faces 241 

An  old  man's  thought  of  school 308 


448  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

Apple  orchards,  the  trees  all  cover 'd  with  blossoms      .         .  .     388 

Approaching,  nearing,  curious      ........     387 

A  promise  to  California       .........     108 

Are  you  the  new  person  drawn  toward  me    .         .         .         .         .         .103 

Arm'd  year — year  of  the  struggle 221 

As  Adam  early  in  the  morning -95 

As  at  thy  portals  also  death  ........     376 

As  consequent  from  store  of  summer  rains    ......     277 

As  down  the  stage  again      .........     397 

Ashes  of  Soldiers,  South  or  North        .......     371 

As  I  ebb'd  with  the  ocean  of  life          .......     202 

As  if  a  phantom  caress'd  me         ........     341 

A  sight  in  camp  in  the  daybreak  gray  and  dim      .....     240 

As  I  lay  with  my  head  in  your  lap  camerado         .         .         .          .         .251 

As  I  ponder'd  in  silence      .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         9 

As  I  sit  in  twilight  late  alone  by  the  flickering  oak-flame  .  .  .416 
As  I  sit  with  others  at  a  great  feast,  suddenly  while  the  music  is  playing  .  345 

As  I  sit  writing  here,  sick  and  grown  old 386 

As  I  walk  these  broad  majestic  days  of  peace 369 

As  I  watch'd  the  ploughman  ploughing         ......     346 

As  one  by  one  withdraw  the  lofty  actors       ......     392 

A  song,  a  poem  of  itself  —  the  word  itself  a  dirge         ....     396 

A  song  for  occupations        .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .169 

A  song  of  the  rolling  earth,  and  of  words  according      .         .         .         .176 

As  the  Greek's  signal  flame,  by  antique  records  told     ....     402 

As  the  time  draws  nigh  glooming  a  cloud     .         .         .         .         .         .370 

As  they  draw  to  a  close        .........     379 

As  toilsome  I  wander'd  Virginia's  woods      ......     240 

A  thousand  perfect  men  and  women  appear 218 

At  the  last,  tenderly    ..........     346 

A  vague  mist  hanging  'round  half  the  pages          .         .         .         .         .410 

A  voice  from  Death,  solemn  and  strange,  in  all  his  sweep  and  power  .  417 
A  woman  waits  for  me,  she  contains  all,  nothing  is  lacking  ...  88 
Aye,  well  I  know  'tis  ghastly  to  descend  that  valley  ....  429 

BEAT!  beat!  drums!  —  blow!  bugles!  blow 222 

Be  composed  —  be  at  ease  with  me  —  I  am  Walt  Whitman,  liberal  and 

lusty  as  Nature 299 

Beginning  my  studies  the  first  step  pleas' d  me  so  much         .         .         .14 
Behold  this  swarthy  face,  these  gray  eyes     .         .         .         .         .         .105 

Brave,  brave  were  the  soldiers  (high  named  to-day)  who  lived  through 

the  fight 386 

By  blue  Ontario's  shore        .........     264 

By  broad  Potomac's  shore,  again  old  tongue         .....     366 

By  that  long  scan  of  waves,  myself  call'd  back,  resumed  upon  myself   .     390 
By  the  bivouac's  fitful  flame         ........     236 

By  the  city  dead-house  by  the  gate  .......  284 

CENTRE  of  equal  daughters,  equal  sons         ......  387 

Chanting  the  square  deific,  out  of  the  One  advancing,  out  of  the   sides,  339 

City  of  orgies,  walks  and  joys       ........  105 

City  of  ships        ...........  230 

Come,  I  will  make  the  continent  indissoluble         .....  99 

Come  my  tan-faced  children 183 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  449 

PAGE 

Come  said  the  Muse 181 

Come  up  from  the  fields  father,  here's  a  letter  from  our  Pete         .         .  236 

Courage  yet,  my  brother  or  my  sister  I 287 

BAREST  thou  now  O  soul 338 

Delicate  cluster  !  flag  of  teeming  life    .......  252 

Did  we  count  great,  O  Soul,  to  penetrate  the  themes  of  mighty  books   .  386 

Did  you  ask  dulcet  rhymes  from  me     .......  252 

Down  on  the  ancient  wharf,  the  sand,  I  sit,  with  a  new-comer  chatting    .  401 

EARTH,  my  likeness 109 

Ever  the  undiscouraged,  resolute,  struggling  soul  of  man      .         .         .  396 

FACING  west  from  California's  shores 95 

Far  back,  related  on  my  mother's  side 395 

Far  hence  amid  an  isle  of  wondrous  beauty 284 

Fast-anchor'd  eternal  O  love  !  O  woman  I  love Ill 

First  O  songs  for  a  prelude  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .219 

Flood  tide  below  me  !  I  see  you  face  to  face         .         .         .         ,         .129 

For  him  I  sing    ...........  14 

For  his  o'erarching  and  last  lesson  the  greybeard  sufi    .         .         .         .418 

Forms,  qualities,  lives,  humanity,  language,  thoughts   .         .         .         .214 

For  the  lands  and  for  these  passionate  days  and  for  myself    .         .         .278 

From  all  the  rest  I  single  out  you,  having  a  message  for  you          .         .  344 

From  east  and  west  across  the  horizon's  edge 412 

From  far  Dakota's  canons  .........  366 

From  Paumanok  starting  I  fly  like  a  bird     ......  222 

From  pent-up  aching  rivers -79 

Full  of  life  now,  compact,  visible         .         .         .         .         .         .         .m 

Full  of  wickedness  I  —  of  many  a  smutch'  d  deed  reminiscent        .         .  427 

GIVE  me  the  splendid  silent  sun  with  all  his  beams  full-dazzling    .         .  244 

Give  me  your  hand  old  Revolutionary 231 

'<    Gliding  o'er  all,  through  all 218 

Good-bye  my  Fancy 422 

Good-bye  my  fancy  —  (I  had  a  word  to  say 409 

Grand  is  the  seen,  the  light,  to  me  —  grand  are  the  sky  and  stars          .  421 

Greater  than  memory  of  Achilles  or  Ulysses          .....  387 

HAD  I  the  choice  to  tally  greatest  bards 389 

Hark,  some  wild  trumpeter,  some  strange  musician      ....  356 

Hast  never  come  to  thee  an  hour          .......  218 

Have  I  no  weapon-word  for  thee  —  some  message  brief  and  fierce         .  412 
Have  you  learn' d  lessons  only  of  those  who  admired  you,  and  were  ten 
der  with  you,  and  stood  aside  for  you    ......  400 

Heave  the  anchor  short       .........  409 

Here  first  the  duties  of  to-day,  the  lessons  of  the  concrete    .         .         .  398 

Here,  take  this  gift 16 

Here  the  frailest  leaves  of  me,  and  yet  my  strongest  lasting  .         .         .  108 

Hold  it  up  sternly  —  see  this  it  sends  back,  (who  is  it?  is  it  you   .         .  213 

How  dare  one  say  it 421 

How  solemn  as  one  by  one           ........  251 

How  sweet  the  silent  backward  tracings 387 

How  they  are  provided  for  upon  the  earth,  (appearing  at  intervals        .  15 

Hush'd  be  the  camps  to-day 263 


450  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

I  AM  he  that  aches  with  amorous  love           ......  93 

I  celebrate  myself,  and  sing  myself       .         .         .         .         .         .         .29 

I  doubt  it  not  —  then  more,  far  more  .......  412 

I  dream'd  in  a  dream  I  saw  a  city  invincible  to  the  attacks  of  the  whole 

of  the  rest  of  the  earth          ........  109 

If  I  should  need  to  name,  O  Western  World,  your  powerfulest  scene  and 

show   ............  391 

I  have  not  so  much  emulated  the  birds  that  musically  sing    .         .         .  425 
I  hear  America  singing,  the  varied  carols  I  hear  .         .          .         .         .17 

I  heard  that  you  ask'd  for  something  to  prove  this  puzzle  the  New  World,  1 1 
I  heard  you  solemn-sweet  pipes  of  the  organ  as  last  Sunday  morn  I 

pass'd  the  church         .........  94 

I  hear  it  was  charged  against  me  that  I  sought  to  destroy  institutions     .  107 

I  met  a  seer        ...........  12 

In  a  far-away  northern  county  in  the  placid  pastoral  region  .         .         .  307 

In  a  little  house  keep  I  pictures  suspended,  it  is  not  a  fix'd  house.         .  310 

In  cabin'd  ships  at  sea         .........  10 

I  need  no  assurances,  I  am  a  man  who  is  pre-occupied  of  his  own  soul,  342 

In  midnight  sleep  of  many  a  face  of  anguish         .....  367 

In  paths  untrodden      ..........  95 

In  softness,  languor,  bloom,  and  growth       ......  425 

In  some  unused  lagoon,  some  nameless  bay          .         .         .         ...  403 

I  saw  in  Louisiana  a  live-oak  growing  .         .         .         .         .         .105 

I  saw  old  General  at  bay     .........  247 

I  see  before  me  now  a  traveling  army  halting        .....  235 

I  see  in  you  the  estuary  that  enlarges  and  spreads  itself  grandly  as  it 

pours  in  the  great  sea  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .218 

I  see  the  sleeping  babe  nestling  the  breast  of  its  mother        .         .  217 

I  sing  the  body  electric        ........  81 

I  sit  and  look  out  upon  all  the  sorrows  of  the  world,  and  upon  all  op 


pression  and  shame 
s  reform  needed?  is  it  through  you 


215 

302 


stand  as  on  some  mighty  eagle's  beak        ......  385 

was  asking  for  something  specific  and  perfect  for  my  city   .         .         .  360 

was  looking  a  long  while  for  Intentions     ......  300 

wander  all  night  in  my  vision    ........  325 

JOY,  shipmate,  joy       ..........  379 

LAST  of  ebb,  and  daylight  waning        .......  390 

Laws  for  creations       ..........  299 

Let  the  reformers  descend  from  the  stands  where  they  are  forever  bawl 

ing  —  let  an  idiot  or  insane  person  appear  on  each  of  the  stands  .  332 

Let  that  which  stood  in  front  go  behind  ....  .  276 
Locations  and  times  —  what  is  it  in  me  that  meets  them  all,  whenever 

and  wherever,  and  makes  me  at  home  ......  218 

Long,  too  long  America       .........  244 

Look  down  fair  moon  and  bathe  this  scene  ......  250 

Lo,  the  unbounded  sea         .........  16 

Lo,  Victress  on  the  peaks    .........  252 

Lover  divine  and  perfect  Comrade  .  .  .....  213 

MANHATTAN'S  streets  I  saunter'd  pondering  .....  289 
Many  things  to  absorb  I  teach  to  help  you  become  eleve  of  mine  .  .no 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  451 


Me  imperturbe,  standing  at  ease  in  Nature  ......  16 

More  experiences  and  sights,  stranger,  than  you'd  think  for  .         .         .  420 

My  city's  fit  and  noble  name  resumed 385 

My  science-friend,  my  noblest  woman-friend         .....  397 

My  spirit  to  yours  dear  brother    . 298 

Myself  and  mine  gymnastic  ever  ........  189 

NAY,  do  not  dream,  designer  dark        .......  428 

Nay  tell  me  not  to-day  the  publish'd  shame           .....  426 

Nations  ten  thousand  years  before  these  States,  and  many  times  ten 

thousand  years  before  these  States         ......  288 

Native  moments  —  when  you  come  upon  me  —  ah  you  are  here  now  .  94 

Night  on  the  prairies  ..........  344 

No  labor-saving  machine  . .108 

Not  alone  those  camps  of  white,  old  comrades  of  the  wars    .         .         .  377 

Not  from  successful  love  alone     ........  388 

Not  heat  flames  up  and  consumes          .......  104 

Not  heaving  from  my  ribb'd  breast  only        .         .         .         .         .  100 

Nothing  is  ever  really  lost,  or  can  be  lost      ......  396 

Not  meagre,  latent  boughs  alone,  O  songs !  (scaly  and  bare,  like  eagles' 

talons 402 

Not  the  pilot  has  charged  himself  to  bring  his  ship  into  port,  though 

beaten  back  and  many  times  baffled        ......  241 

Not  to  exclude  or  demarcate,  or  pick  out  evils  from  their  formidable 

masses  (even  to  expose  them         .......  420 

Not  youth  pertains  to  me     .          .          .          .          .         .          .          .          .  249 

Now  finale  to  the  shore        .........  380 

Now  list  to  my  morning's  romanza,  I  tell  the  signs  of  the  Answerer  .  134 

Now  precedent  songs,  farewell  —  by  every  name  farewell  .  .  .  403 

O  A  new  song,  a  free  song 223 

O  Captain  !  my  Captain  !  our  fearful  trip  is  done.         ....  262 

Of  Equality  —  as  if  it  harm'd  me,  giving  others  the  same  chances  and 
rights  as  myself — as  if  it  were  not  indispensable  to  my  own  rights 
that  others  possess  the  same  .          .          .          .         .         .          .218 

Of  heroes,  history,  grand  events,  premises,  myths,  poems      .          .         -425 

Of  him  I  love  day  and  night  I  dream'd  I  heard  he  was  dead           .          .  340 
Of  Justice  —  as  if  Justice  could  be  anything  but  the  same  ample  law,  ex 
pounded  by  natural  judges  and  saviors  .          .         .          .          .          .217 

Of  obedience,  faith,  adhesiveness          .         .          .         .         .         .          .217 

Of  ownership  —  as  if  one  fit  to  own  things  could  not  at  pleasure  enter 

upon  all,  and  incorporate  them  into  himself  or  herself    .          .          .  214 
Of  persons  arrived  at  high  positions,  ceremonies,  wealth,  scholarships, 

and  the  like 300 

Of  public  opinion         ..........  364 

Of  that  blithe  throat  of  thine  from  arctic  bleak  and  blank      .         .         .  394 

Of  these  years  I  sing   .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  373 

Of  the  terrible  doubt  of  appearances    .......  101 

O  hymen  !  O  hymenee  !  why  do  you  tantalize  me  thus  93 

Old  farmers,  travelers,  workmen  (no  matter  how  crippled  or  bent          .  397 

O  living  always,  always  dying      ........  344 

O  magnet-South  !  O  glistening  perfumed  South  !  my  South  .          .          .  359 

O  me,  man  of  slack  faith  so  long          .         .         .                    .          .          .  361 

O  me  !  O  life  !  of  the  questions  of  these  recurring         ,         .         .         .215 


452 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


On  a  flat  road  runs  the  well-train'd  runner   .         .         .         .         .         .217 

Once  I  pass'd  through  a  populous  city  imprinting  my  brain  for  future  use 

with  its  shows,  architecture,  customs,  traditions     ....  94 

One  hour  to  madness  and  joy  !  O  furious !  O  confine  me  not         .         .  91 

One's-self  I  sing,  a  simple  separate  person  ......  9 

One  thought  ever  at  the  fore  ........  425 

On  journeys  through  the  States  we  start 15 

Only  themselves  understand  themselves  and  the  like  of  themselves  .  214 
On  my  Northwest  coast  in  the  midst  of  the  night  a  fisherman's  group 

stands  watching 305 

On,  on  the  same,  ye  jocund  twain  .  . 410 

On  the  beach  at  night 205 

On  the  beach  at  night  alone         ........  207 

O  sight  of  pity,  shame  and  dole  ........  292 

O  star  of  France 306 

O  take  my  hand  Walt  Whitman  .  .  .112 

O  tan-faced  prairie  boy  ...  .  250 

Others  may  praise  what  they  like  .  .  304 
O  to  make  the  most  jubilant  song  .  .142 

Out  from  behind  this  bending  rough-cut  mask  .  296 

Out  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking  .  .  196 

Out  of  the  murk  of  heaviest  clouds  .  .  365 

Out  of  the  rolling  ocean  the  crowd  came  a  drop  gently  to  me  .  92 

Over  and  through  the  burial  chant 413 

Over  the  carnage  rose  prophetic  a  voice  ......  247 

Over  the  Western  sea  hither  from  Niphon  come 193 

O  you  whom  I  often  and  silently  come  where  you  are  that  I  may  be  with  you.  in 

PASSING  stranger !  you  do  not  know  how  longingly  I  look  upon  you     .  106 

Pensive  and  faltering  ..........  346 

Pensive  on  her  dead  gazing  I  heard  the  Mother  of  All  .        .        .        «  377 
Poets  to  come  !  orators,  singers,  musicians  to  come       .         .         .         .18 

Proudly  the  flood  comes  in,  shouting,  foaming,  advancing     .         .        .  390 

Proud  music  of  the  storm 310 

QUICKSAND  years  that  whirl  me  I  know  not  whither     ....  342 

RACE  of  veterans  —  race  of  victors 250 

Recorders  ages  hence 102 

Rise  O  days  from  your  fathomless  deeps,  till  you  loftier,  fiercer  sweep    .  228 
Roaming  in  thought  over  the  Universe,  I  saw  the  little  that  is  Good 

steadily  hastening  towards  immortality  .         .         .         .         .         .216 

Roots  and  leaves  themselves  alone  are  these         .        .        .        .        .103 

SACRED,  blithesome,  undented 426 

Sane,  random,  negligent  hours     ........  427 

Sauntering  the  pavement  or  riding  the  country  by-road,  lo,  such  faces    .  353 

Scented  herbage  of  my  breast      .  .96 

Sea-beauty !  stretch'd  and  basking       .......  385 

Shot  gold,  maroon  and  violet,  dazzling  silver,  emerald,  fawn         .         .  400 

Shut  not  your  doors  to  me  proud  libraries 17 

Silent  and  amazed  even  when  a  little  boy 217 

Simple  and  fresh  and  fair  from  winter's  close  emerging        .        .         .  387 

Singing  my  days •        •  315 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  453 

M4M 

Skirting  the  river  road  (my  forenoon  walk,  my  rest  ....  216 
Small  the  theme  of  my  Chant,  yet  the  greatest  —  namely,  One's-Self  — 

a  simple,  separate  person.     That,  for  the  use  of  the  New  World,  I 

sing 397 

Somehow  I  cannot  let  it  go  yet,  funeral  though  it  is  .  .  .  .411 
Something  startles  me  where  I  thought  I  was  safest  ....  285 
Sometimes  with  one  I  love  I  fill  myself  with  rage  for  fear  I  effuse  unre- 

turn'd  love  .  .  .  .  •  .  .  .  .  .  .  no 

Soon  shall  the  winter's  foil  be  here 399 

Sounds  of  the  winter  too  .  .  •  .  .  .  .  .  -415 

Spirit  that  form'd  this  scene 368 

Spirit  whose  work  is  done  —  spirit  of  dreadful  hours  ....  253 
Splendor  of  ended  day  floating  and  filling  me  .  .  .  .  .374 

Spontaneous  me,  Nature  . .89 

Starting  from  fish-shape  Paumanok  where  I  was  born  .  .  .  .18 
Steaming  the  northern  rapids  —  (an  old  St.  Lawrence  reminiscence  .  389 

Still  though  the  one  I  sing 17 

Stranger,  if  you  passing  meet  me  and  desire  to  speak  to  me,  why  should 

you  not  speak  to  me     .........       18 

Suddenly  out  of  its  stale  and  drowsy  lair,  the  lair  of  slaves  .  .  .211 

TEARS  !  tears !  tears 

Thanks  in  old  age  —  thanks  ere  I  go 

That  coursing  on,  whate'er  men's  speculations 398 

That  music  always  round  me,  unceasing,  unbeginning,  yet  long  untaught 

I  did  not  hear 343 

That  shadow  my  likeness  that  goes  to  and  fro  seeking  a  livelihood,  chat 
tering,  chaffering         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .ill 

That  which  eludes  this  verse  and  any  verse 362 

The  appointed  winners  in  a  long-stretch'd  game 388 

The  business  man  the  acquirer  vast 376 

The  commonplace  I  sing 419 

The  devilish  and  the  dark,  the  dying  and  diseas'd        ....  419 

Thee  for  my  recitative 358 

The  last  sunbeam        ..........  246 

The  mystery  of  mysteries,  the  crude  and  hurried  ceaseless  flame,  spon 
taneous,  bearing  on  itself 429 

Then  last  of  all,  caught  from  these  shores,  this  hill       ....  391 

The  noble  sire  fallen  on  evil  days 230 

The  prairie-grass  dividing,  its  special  odor  breathing     ....  107 

There  was  a  child  went  forth  every  day 282 

These  carols  sung  to  cheer  my  passage  through  the  world  I  see    .         .  379 

These  I  singing  in  Spring  collect  for  lovers 99 

The  sobbing  of  the  bells,  the  sudden  death-news  everywhere         .         .  378 

The  soft  voluptuous  opiate  shades        .......  401 

The  soothing  sanity  and  blitheness  of  completion          .         .         .         .411 

The  touch  of  flame  —  the  illuminating  fire  —  the  loftiest  look  at  last     .  404 

The  two  old,  simple  problems  ever  intertwined             ....  398 

The  untold  want  by  life  and  land  ne'er  granted   .....  379 

The  world  below  the  brine  .                   206 

They  shall  arise  in  the  States       ........  364 

Thick-sprinkled  bunting !  flag  of  stars          ......  367 

This  dust  was  once  the  man         ........  263 

This  is  thy  hour  O  Soul,  thy  free  flight  into  the  wordless      .        .        .  369 


454  TNDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


PAGE 

This  latent  mine  —  these  unlaunch'd  voices  —  passionate  powers  .  .  386 

This  moment  yearning  and  thoughtful  sitting  alone  ....  106 
Thither  as  I  look  I  see  each  result  and  glory  retracing  itself  and  nestling 

close,  always  obligated          .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .16 

Thou  Mother  with  thy  Equal  brood      .......  346 

Thou  orb  aloft  full-dazzling  !  thou  hot  October  noon    ....  352 

Thou  reader  throbbest  life  and  pride  and  love  the  same  as  I.         .         .  18 

Thou  who  hast  slept  all  night  upon  the  storm        .....  204 

Through  the  ample  open  door  of  the  peaceful  country  barn  .         .         .216 

Through  the  soft  evening  air  enwinding  all  .         .         .         .         .         .  309 

To  be  at  all  —  what  is  better  than  that         ......  427 

To  conclude,  I  announce  what  comes  after  me      .....  380 

To-day  a  rude  brief  recitative        ........  207 

To-day,  from  each  and  all,  a  breath  of  prayer  —  a  pulse  of  thought  .  388 

To-day,  with  bending  head  and  eyes,  thou,  too,  Columbia  .  .  .  402 

To  get  betimes  in  Boston  town  I  rose  this  morning  early  .  .  .  209 

To  get  the  final  lilt  of  songs  ........  394 

To  the  East  and  to  the  West 1 10 

To  thee  old  cause        .          .         .          .......  1 1 

To  the  garden  the  world  anew  ascending      .         .         .         ...  79 

To  the  leaven'd  soil  they  trod  calling  I  sing  for  the  last  .  .  .  254 
To  the  States  or  any  one  of  them,  or  any  city  of  the  States,  Resist  muck, 

obey  little      ...........  15 

To  think  of  time  —  of  all  that  retrospection           .....  333 

To  those  who've  fail'd,  in  aspiration  vast     ......  385 

Trickle  drops  !  my  blue  veins  leaving  .......  104 

Turn  O  Libertad,  for  the  war  is  over    .......  254 

Two  boats  with  nets  lying  off  the  sea-beach,  quite  still  .  .  .  351 

UNFOLDED  out  of  the  folds  of  the  woman  man  comes  unfolded,  and  is 

always  to  come  unfolded       .         ...         .         .         .         .         .  302 

Unseen  buds,  infinite,  hidden  well 421 

Upon  this  scene,  this  show  .........  393 

VIGIL  strange  I  kept  on  the  field  one  night  ......  238 

Vocalism,  measure,  concentration,  determination,  and  the  divine  power 

to  speak  words     .         .         .         .         .         .                  .         .         .  297 

WANDERING  at  morn  . 308 

Warble  me  now  for  joy  of  lilac-time,  (returning  in  reminiscence   .         .  293 
Weapon  shapely,  naked,  wan       ..        .         .         .         .         .         .         .148 

Weave  in,  weave  in,  my  hardy  life       .......  365 

Welcome,  Brazilian  brother  —  thy  ample  place  is  ready         .         .         .  415 
We  two  boys  together  clinging    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .108 

We  two,  how  long  we  were  fool'd       .......  93 

What  am  I  after  all  but  a  child,  pleas'd  with  the  sound  of  my  own 

name  ?  repeating  it  over  and  over          ......  303 

What  are  those  of  the  known  but  to  ascend  and  enter  the  Unknown      .  379 

What  best  I  see  in  thee 368 

What  hurrying  human  tide,  or  day  or  night 394 

What  may  we  chant,  O  thou,  within  this  tomb       .....  294 

What  place  is  besieged,  and  vainly  tries  to  raise  the  siege      .         .  17 

What  ship  puzzled  at  sea,  cons  for  the  true  reckoning  .         .         .         .  343 

What  think,  you  J  take  my  pen  in  hand  to  record          .         .         .         .  HO 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  455 


What  you  give  me  I  cheerfully  accept 216 

When  his  hour  for  death  had  come 417 

When  I  heard  at  the  close  of  the  day  how  my  name  had  been  receiv'd 
with  plaudits  in  the  capitol,  still  it  was  not  a  happy  night  for  me 

that  follow'd 102 

When  I  heard  the  learn'd  astronomer 214 

When  I  peruse  the  conquer'd  fame  of  heroes  and  the  victories  of  mighty 

generals,  I  do  not  envy  the  generals 107 

When  I  read  the  book,  the  biography  famous 14 

When  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloom'd 255 

When  the  full-grown  poet  came 416 

Where  the  city's  ceaseless  crowd  moves  on  the  livelong  day         .  301 

While  behind  all  firm  and  erect  as  ever 426 

While  my  wife  at  my  side  lies  slumbering,  and  the  wars  are  over  long  .  248 

While  not  the  past  forgetting 399 

Whispers  of  heavenly  death  murmur'd  I  hear 338 

Who  are  you  dusky  woman,  so  ancient  hardly  human  ....  249 

Whoever  you  are  holding  me  now  in  hand 97 

Whoever  you  are,  I  fear  you  are  walking  the  walks  of  dreams    .        .186 

Who  has  gone  farthest?  for  I  would  go  farther 363 

Who  includes  diversity  and  is  Nature 303 

Who  learns  my  lesson  complete 304 

Why  reclining,  interrogating?  why  myself  and  all  drowsing          .        .  218 

Why,  who  makes  much  of  a  miracle 301 

Wild,  wild  the  storm,  and  the  sea  high  running 208 

With  all  thy  gifts  America 309 

With  antecedents 191 

With  husky-haughty  lips,  O  sea 392 

With  its  cloud  of  skirmishers  in  advance          .        .        .        .        .        .236 

Women  sit  or  move  to  and  fro,  some  old,  some  young  .        .        .        .217 

Word  over  all,  beautiful  as  the  sky 250 

World  take  good  notice,  silver  stars  fading 250 

YEAR  of  meteors!  brooding  year 190 

Years  of  the  modern!  years  of  the  unperform'd 370 

Year  that  trembled  and  reel'd  beneath  me 241 

Yet,  yet,  ye  downcast  hours,  I  know  ye  also            341 

You  felons  on  trial  in  courts 298 

You  lingering  sparse  leaves  of  me  on  winter-nearing  boughs        .        .  402 

Youth,  large,  lusty,  loving — youth  full  of  grace,  force,  fascination     .  180 

You  tides  with  ceaseless  swell!  you  power  that  does  this  work    .        .  389 

You  who  celebrate  bygones n 


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